
Hello My Dearest Readers! With the excitement of A Trial of Petal and Poison coming soon, I wanted to start sharing with you Praetorian Rising for a little teaser. Enjoy the first two chapters of Praetorian Rising, and welcome to the Rogue Rebellion!
My heart shall love,
My sword protect,
My courage remain,
My strength withstand,
I serve you Ma’Nada.
With every breath,
I praise the day,
We embrace again as equals,
In the great halls of Cydonia.
Chapter One
Lost Memory
Wind whistled through the dense overgrowth of Dun L’er Forest, a high-pitched whir of warning dogging his every step. The rustling maple and stark pine trees hunched like ghostly sentinels, the foggy fingers of breaking dawn stretching toward him as he ran. They were watching him, the ancient eyes of the forest, their aged and weathered limbs creaking against the pressured air. They would hold his secrets in their entombed silence, but the gods knew what he’d done.
Panic slipped down Vesyon’s spine, a rivulet of ice pushing his legs to move ever faster. There was no going back now, the deed was done. He had her. They had escaped.
“We’re almost there,” he whispered as he readjusted the precious form cradled in his arms. Tucking away the young woman’s brilliant tumble of red hair beneath the dense fur of his cloak, he pushed through a bramble bush as he continued south toward Sierra Village. Thankfully, the beasts tracking him had lost his scent miles behind his current location. He no longer heard the crash of paw on his heels. Despite the small reprieve, he kept moving. One could never hide from the High Court for long within the depths of Aspera. The eyes of the crown stretched far and wide.
As he pressed into the barrier lines of Sierra Village, Vesyon was vividly aware of the dangers that came with anyone seeing the young woman tucked into his arms. Thankfully his destination wasn’t far—just beyond the forest’s edge—but he could never be too careful.
Her breath was warm against the crook of his neck, a slow and steady reminder of the depth of her induced sleep. He was grateful for it, wishing she could remain in a peaceful swirl of dreams instead of waking into the harsh reality of her impending future.
A mysterious and silent creature followed him in quick pursuit, dodging between bush and boulder to keep pace with Vesyon’s steady gait through the dense forest terrain. Short tufts of black and brown fur camouflaged the creature’s every move, allowing him to accomplish his task of the silent companion with pristine perfection. After so many years together, Vesyon couldn’t help but think of his small feline friend, Neeko, as one of his closest confidantes.
Up ahead, past the battered wooden fence skirting Sierra Village, he saw a dulled lamp light flickering wildly in the grey of early morning. The orange glow of electricity was like a beacon perched on top of a well-weathered cabin. He hurried toward the sagging walls and ancient, slatted roof with eager anticipation.
An elderly man with a grizzled grey beard stepped out of a low-slung doorway, intrigue and growing curiosity spilling across his creased face. His milky blue eyes and the weight of age contrasted the sharp edges of Vesyon’s youthful appearance.
“It’s been a long time, my dear friend,” the man, Peter Schroder, remarked with a mischievous grin. “I’m surprised the guards let you sneak by.” His anxious gaze swept over the deserted village grounds, his caterpillar brows furrowing into a single line. The cracked skin of Vesyon’s lips stretched wide with affection as Peter caressed the dagger hidden in his waistband like a cherished friend. Being the town butcher had its positives for Peter; no one questioned his love of sharp blades.
“Too long,” Vesyon replied in earnest agreement, readjusting his hold on the sleeping woman as he ducked through the cabin’s doorway.
A flicker of shocked bewilderment crossed Peter’s face as he glared at Vesyon’s precious bundle. Would the girl remember the old man? Or dismiss him as a stranger? Vesyon couldn’t be sure. His eyes traversed the broad lines of the man’s face with grave worry, not wanting to throw his old friend into the storm of chaos she would invoke, yet knowing he had few other options.
“You weren’t followed?” Peter asked although he knew the answer. Vesyon wouldn’t be in his home if he’d been tracked. It didn’t mean they were safe, only that they had a little time to discuss details. Vesyon shook his head before setting the young sleeping woman down on the fire-warmed hearth and wrapping fur blankets securely around her shoulders.
The old man’s living quarters were nothing more than a single room: kitchen, living room, and bedroom, all scarcely lit by a swinging bulb over the kitchen table and the glowing fire in the corner. Electricity was a luxury in the rundown villages of Aspera, but Sierra Village made do with what it had. Aside from the electric icebox in his butchery, Peter kept his home largely stripped of those technological advancements the wealthier villagers possessed. The old man wasn’t one for fancy. He had a simple and functioning home and it was a welcoming stop after Vesyon’s long, brutal journey through the wilderness of Aspera.
Above their heads, through the latticework, was an attic large enough for Peter’s eight-year-old grandson. Young Lunci’s soft snores drifted down to Vesyon’s sensitive ears pushing a momentary smile across his stern features. Despite Vesyon’s impromptu appearance, the kid slept through the commotion, for which Vesyon was grateful. The details he was about to unload onto Peter wouldn’t be well-suited for a young boy’s mind.
“You really shouldn’t be here,” Peter said, his tone strained yet friendly. Trespassers weren’t welcome in the village, and Vesyon knew the consequences of being caught inside the grounds by the wrong person.
“I had little choice as my message relayed to you,” he replied smoothly. Which was almost true, but he wasn’t ready to think over the details of his decision. Few were trusted by Vesyon, and Peter was a hardened man through experience, but his wide-open heart offered unending compassion for those without a leg to stand on. Leaving the girl in Peter’s hands was the safest choice imaginable.
Peter’s lips parted, his features laced with hesitation. Nodding at the sleeping girl, he asked, “You really think she’s ready for this? For what position you’re about to put her in?”
It was a substantial question. Vesyon wasn’t sure of the answer himself. He sat down on a wicker stool, pulling the heavy fur cloak from his shoulders. The heat billowing from the hearth felt good. He closed his eyes for a moment of peace within the comfort of warmth.
Removing a rusted poker from its hook on the wall, Peter shuffled the coals in the hearth with quick, sharp stabs, stoking the smoldering wood into a soft flame. A smile curled the corners of Vesyon’s lips as he observed Peter through the hooded sweep of his sooty lashes. Despite the frailty implied by age-spotted hands and knobby knuckles, the man held his own.
Approving of his freshly stoked fire, Peter nodded once before grabbing a plate of meat slices from the kitchen table and offering them to Vesyon. Politely declining, Vesyon finally replied, “I have no idea.”
Pulling a worn pipe from his cloak, Vesyon opened a thin canvas bag filled with the dried leaves of his favorite tobacco. He carefully pressed the delicate bits into the pipe’s mouth and stared into the dancing flame in the hearth with a sense of momentary calm that he knew wouldn’t last. The second he walked out the door, the chaos would consume him again. It was only a few minute’s reprieve—a moment to catch his breath—he told himself even as his legs twitched to be on the move again.
“LeMarc had her locked in his dungeon for the past seven years,” Vesyon said, his voice tinged with a hint of vexation as he pulled a knife and flint stone from his pocket.
He ignored Peter’s stern glare at the disrespectful use of the High King’s first name. Vesyon would never think of LeMarc Lowenhaar as a king, let alone the High King of Aspera. The man was a deceitful, power-hungry monster. Vesyon saw no reason to show the man any sort of respect, whether in his presence or not.
“We honestly can’t be certain of anything.” Vesyon lit his pipe and puffed three times in quick succession to catch flame on the dried leaves. The sweet tang of tobacco smoke filled Vesyon’s lungs, and he sighed in relief at the tingling sensation buzzing through his veins as he exhaled.
Peter’s gaze shifted to the bundle of fur by the hearth and landed on the heavy brown boots poking out the bottom. “She looks so fragile. Is there no other option? No one else?”
Vesyon studied the girl’s delicate features bronzed by the glow of the fire. Peter was right; despite her age, she looked too young and innocent for battle. She was someone he’d give his life for; Vesyon hated knowing what she was about to endure. “She’s all we have. Our rebellion can’t wait a second longer—she must be prepared.”
“How long will she be here?” Peter whispered, pulling the fur blankets more securely around the young woman. Bitter fall air seeped through a cracked windowpane, and Peter shivered. Vesyon wondered if it was from the weather or the burden he’d just heaped onto the old man’s shoulders. “It’s going to take time to assess how destructive her induced amnesia is. From what Langhorn expressed to me, she might not remember anything at all.”
Vesyon’s upper lip twitched at Peter’s probing words, a subtle tic of the displeasure he tried to hide. Hopefully, Langhorn had succeeded in obliterating everything the girl had endured over the last seven years. If she was lucky, she’d wake up without recalling the smallest detail of her life before that point. It was cruel to rip away someone’s identity, but they’d had no choice. If even an inkling of her memories survived, they’d all pay for the horrible atrocities inflicted on her mind, body, and soul while she’d been locked inside LeMarc’s torture chamber.
Peter’s eyes studied Vesyon’s unshaven face before he lowered his creaky body onto the stool near the fireplace. Bones snapped and popped as he settled into the sagging wicker, reminding Vesyon of the extreme fragility most Asperians developed from lack of proper nutrients over the years. He winced with barely concealed worry, but thankfully Peter didn’t notice.
“Tea?” the older man asked, pushing a heavy blackened pot into the heat.
Vesyon nodded, knowing he should leave, but not wanting to be rude or end this rare feeling of comfort. He had asked Peter for an incredible favor. He owed the elderly man a moment of company despite his growing urgency to leave. No one knew he was here; he had time to drink a cup of tea—but only one.
“Do you have an idea of where the High King is?” Peter asked as he handed Vesyon a steaming cup of lavender tea.
Vesyon blew across the rim of the dingy grey mug, watching tendrils of steam curl into the bitter air and disperse like mysterious ghosts. “I don’t have a clue,” he replied. “Metus—”
“The King Regent,” Peter corrected sharply.
“Yes,” Vesyon replied, trying to hide the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Peter hated the High King and the King Regent as much as anyone else involved with the rebellion, but he believed in respecting the titles of those in power, and Vesyon wasn’t one to press that button too hard. “He’s still managing the throne and has been since the Praetorian Exile. However, I don’t believe for a second that LeMa—the High King—” Vesyon corrected, “is idly sitting by. His absence is worrisome, but more than that, his complete silence over the last seven years proves Langhorn right. The High King is up to something of grand proportions, and I want to ensure I’m ready when he lays out his cards.”
Glancing out the frost-riddled window, Vesyon smiled with genuine affection at Neeko, perched like a sentinel on the windowsill, his mouth full of fresh forest mice. Beyond the cat’s silhouette, thick clouds were rolling in over the forest canopy. A storm was coming, and it was time to leave. He still had so much to do, and not nearly enough time to do it.
Tipping his mug up, Vesyon took a hefty gulp and almost choked as the scorching heat burned its way down his throat to his belly. He grunted in mild discomfort, prompting an arched brow of bemusement from Peter, but Vesyon waved him off and blew more intently on his tea. “I can’t thank you enough for this Peter. I have no possible way to repay you for taking care of her.”
Peter shook his head, a tender grin running over his lips. “Consider it a payment repaid to a dear friend—one very much deserved, mind you.”
Vesyon opened his mouth to protest, but Peter raised a withered hand to ward off even the smallest objection. “I have always hated being in debt to favors, especially when it comes to friends. As I see it now, watching over her is a small contribution toward what you have given me these past years. If my wife were here, or my daughter,” Peter said, tears glistening at the corners of his eye, “they would say the same.”
A zing of guilt struck deep in Vesyon’s chest. Peter’s beloved family hadn’t escaped the slaughter. Behind closed eyes, their hollowed faces appeared, thick red blood streaming from the gashes in their throats, their twin bodies slumped on the ground, lifeless. Vesyon disagreed with Peter. The man was giving far more than Vesyon had ever returned.
Sipping his only moderately scalding tea, Vesyon’s gaze drifted back to the young woman’s face. “Knowing she’ll be with Neeko and you puts my mind at ease.”
Peter chuckled, his milky eyes twinkling with mirth. “I might bore that poor cat to tears in this village. The most exciting adventure he’ll have is chasing down a rat. Are you sure he is actually willing to stay?”
“Willing is a strong word.” Vesyon eyed Neeko perched at the window, his stoic haunches barely twitching in the bitter rush of wind snaking down the mountain and through the village grounds. He would miss the little fur ball, but it was the only protection he could provide that would remain at Camille’s side. In the coming moon cycles, she would need security and companionship. With a slight smirk Vesyon dumped the ashes from his pipe into the dwindling flames of the fire. “He’ll stick by her though, and that’s what she’ll need.”
“Well, as far as Count Jenkin is aware, I have a distant relative staying with me until further notice. He’ll meet her as soon as she acclimates to the village. I don’t expect a warm welcome,” Peter said with a slight frown. Pretending the woman was a distant relative of Peter was the only way to ensure the villagers wouldn’t shun or forcibly remove her. Sierra Village wasn’t in the practice of being hospitable to strange folk, and despite every excuse Vesyon had fed himself to keep Camille close at hand, this was ultimately the best plan of action. “But they will accept her well enough,” Peter assured, assessing Vesyon’s pinched expression with obvious concern.
“She’s with you Peter. She’s in good hands. Teach her everything you know about hunting, trapping, and tracking. She’ll be a bit rusty when she wakes.”
Peter nodded. “Any idea when you’ll come back for her?” he asked, taking the half-empty teacup from Vesyon and placing it on the bare kitchen table with a subtle ‘clink.’ As the flames in the hearth stretched out their last arms in a dance of withering energy, Vesyon packed away his pipe and tobacco pouch before shrugging into his heavy, fur-lined cloak.
“You have twelve moon cycles. I will come for her then,” he said. Their eyes met, and they grasped each other’s hand in farewell. Peter’s shake was firm, but Vesyon felt the tremble beneath the steel exterior. Vesyon plucked the heavy iron pistol from his belt and placed it on the rickety table beside the door. The smell of gunpowder singed the lining of his nostrils, sharp and bitter, and recognizable to any warrior.
Peter eyed the weapon warily. “Is that necessary?”
“Just in case,” Vesyon said with a final glance at the young woman shrouded in fur blankets. “I’ve given you two bullets. It’s all I have left. Hopefully, it’s enough for you and Lunci if our plan turns south.”
A heavy silence descended. No words were necessary. Peter understood the weight of his role in Vesyon’s plan, as well as the consequences. There was no other route, no other option. They had one path: forward.
Peter nodded. “She’ll be ready.”
“Keep her safe, Peter; keep her hidden from the High Court. No one must know she’s here.”
Peter stared at him, his wild caterpillar eyebrows dipping over squinted blue triangles before consenting with a curt nod.
“I need to get back to Romeo Village before the High Court realizes what I took from them—I can’t leave Phillip alone with the mess they’re in right now. The poor man hasn’t yet recovered from what happened in Charlie Town.”
Peter raised an impatient hand. “I know. No need to explain.”
With a quick nod of appreciation, Vesyon ducked out the wooden door and disappeared into the dark forest, not once looking back.
***
The woman’s eyes fluttered open, and she shied away from the intruding light and heat that assaulted her fragile senses. She couldn’t place her location, and her back ached with stiffness as though she hadn’t moved in ages.
“Awake, are you? It’s about time. You’ve been sleeping for days.”
The woman sought the source of the voice: an old, scruffy man perched close to the glowing hearth. She didn’t consciously snap to attention or shove the fur blankets to the floor. She didn’t feel the blade’s smooth wooden handle as she yanked it from the old man’s belt and didn’t hesitate to angle the freshly sharpened metal against his throat.
“Where am I?” she croaked, her throat raw as if scratched with sandpaper. It felt like she hadn’t spoken in years. But that couldn’t be right, she’d just been—she paused. She couldn’t remember where she’d last been. “Who are you and what do you want with me?”
“I’m a friend, and I want nothing but to keep you safe,” the old man said carefully, holding himself stiffly against the blade. “Do you remember how you got here?”
“No,” she snapped in sharp frustration. “Where am I?”
“Sierra Village. In my home,” the old man said, keeping his eyes locked on hers. “Hungry? I can make you something.” He gestured to the kitchen area, but she refused to look anywhere but at his face while deciding whether he was lying or not.
Keeping him in sight, she surveyed the small room, noting small knick-knacks, a wooden bowl filled with overly ripened apples, and a bedframe near the hearth with a feather mattress and an aged brown quilt. It wasn’t a prison or holding cell. It was the old man’s home—and a cozy one at that. A small, iron kettle hung over glowing coals, probably boiling water for tea. The comforting aroma of fresh rye bread wafted from the pantry and the scent of smoked turkey wrapped in salted bindings made her mouth water. She briefly eyed the nearby electric icebox. Her stomach growled.
Scowling stubbornly, she retorted, “I want answers. I don’t need your food.”
“It would seem your stomach says otherwise. I’m not a threat, child. I’m here to help you.”
The woman pressed the knife harder against his skin. “‘Help me?’ You want to help me? Then give me answers!”
He stared at her blankly, and she seethed.
“Who are you?” the woman shouted wildly, body shaking in terror. “Help me by telling me who you are!”
“I won’t hurt you,” he said, raising his hands in a show of peace. “My bones are far too old and fragile.” The woman remained steadfast, blade to his throat, and the old man chuckled. “My name is Peter Schroder and you’ve been in my care for a week. You won’t remember me, but we have met before.”
His features twitched, and she sensed a deep sadness emanating from his entire being as he spoke. Their last meeting hadn’t been a pleasant one, it seemed.
“Where? How do you know me? When did you last see me? When?!” The woman’s words tumbled out in rapid fire, but Peter remained calm and collected.
“I don’t have all the answers to your questions, child. But I promise you’re safe in my care.”
His response failed to temper her racing heart, but she removed the blade and stepped back. She remembered nothing about herself, not even her own name. Where had she been born? Who were her parents, and where were they? This man wasn’t familiar in any way.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, sitting on the bed and placing the knife beside her. She gathered the furs that had pooled around her worn leather boots and pulled them tightly around her shoulders, shaking her head. She’d smelled that knife, its hard steel tang, before visually locating it on Peter’s belt. She’d identified every entrance and possible exit in the tiny home before her fingers had even reached the blade—they amounted to four if she counted the little window above her head. She even heard the soft rush of breath from a sleeping child overhead in a makeshift bedroom loft—all of these skills, and yet she couldn’t recall anything before the moment she’d opened her eyes.
Peter appeared to understand her fright and confusion and busied himself with stoking the fire into a decent flame as she angrily wiped moisture from her eyes. “Your name is Camille Scipio,” he said, “and you were brought to me eight nights ago by a close friend. I’m to care for you until he returns.”
“Cam-EE-ill,” she said, rolling the syllables of her first name around her tongue but feeling no familiarity.
“I have no doubt you’re wary of your surroundings right now, but in due time, things will come back to you,” Peter added with a small smile.
Camille looked up at him with curious, searching eyes, before staring at the skinny black and brown cat by her feet. “That’s all you have to say?” Camille asked, furtively reaching down to scratch the cat’s furry head.
How curious, she thought with each stroke, that this cat’s presence makes me feel—calmer.
“I’m afraid so. I’m to care for you until it’s no longer needed. That’s all I know.”
“That doesn’t tell me anything,” Camille countered. “Who left me here? You said it was a ‘friend.’ Who are they, and how do they know me?” Her bottom lip poked out with indignant frustration as she turned an icy glare on the man, hoping it would force loose a sliver of information. The man was like a new gravestone, unyielding and aloof, hiding the depth of its secrets far beneath the surface.
“I can’t say any more, child. I apologize. But I can assure you that you’re safe and most welcome in my home,” Peter said, moving slowly to pour Camille a steaming cup of tea.
She accepted the chipped stone-ware mug and sniffed at the purple-tinged liquid inside. It smelled flowery. “What’s this? Some sort of draught to knock me out?” Her stomach gurgled again in a desperate plea that she indulge despite her misgivings.
Peter glanced at her with a comical expression. “It’s just a cup of lavender tea.”
Camille couldn’t muster the energy to question him further. Sudden heaviness weighted her eyelids, dragging her down with more insistence than her stomach’s hunger pangs. She sipped the warm liquid that tasted of lavender and mint and set the cup down as the cat jumped up beside her. Petting the cat as he cuddled against her hip, Camille slid down on the flat feather pillow and drifted back into a heavy sleep.
***
The wind picked up, whipping against the ancient trees of the Dun L’er Forest like a hungry monster, every branch alive in the dance of early Fall. Despite the pounding sense of danger riding every wind wisp, Peter was relieved. The uprising was finally underway—a whisper of reckless abandon hummed through the bitter air—and this time they’d be ready.
Peter shuffled from the kitchen counter to the whistling kettle to pour himself a fresh cup of tea before he settled down across from the sleeping Camille with a plate of turkey and cheese. Neeko was curled into a ball against her stomach, purring contently. The pair of them appeared at ease in slumber, short-lived but much needed. It had been so long since he’d last seen her, but even to his old and frail eyes she hadn’t changed in the least.
He recalled the first time he’d seen her face, seven years before on a night chilled by the oncoming of winter. Her eyes had blazed a deadly black, and her entire body had been slathered in blood—she’d worn it like a token of achievement.
He should fear having her there after witnessing what she’d done to the ones he loved. Almost his entire family had been slaughtered right before his eyes, one after the next, in swift slashes of metal. Whoever hadn’t escaped his village when she’d arrived had died—yet she’d left him and his grandson untouched. Not a word had been expressed, not a single sound had crossed her lips, as she stared down at them, eyes ablaze with ballistic rage, before she turned and walked away.
He didn’t know then, or now, why she’d kept them alive, but it was enough of a reason to allow her into his home. Peter believed Vesyon—Camille was the key to their rebellion, and her past was not a reflection of who she was, but what she was capable of being. Aspera had suffered enough under the strong arm of the High King. Allowing this woman to sleep under his own roof was the least he could do to aid the rebellion if it kept their weapon safe from the High Court’s greedy fingers.
He’d made a promise to Vesyon, an honest vow to keep her protected and hidden no matter the consequences. Despite the truth of his word to lay down his life to protect Camille, his grandfatherly worry for the small child sleeping above their heads prickled at his conscience. But, without her help in the rebel movement, Aspera would fall, and there’d be nothing left to fight for: no viable future for his grandson, Lunci.
“Please, Mother Ma’Nada, giver of life and protector of this land—please guard my family against evil,” Peter whispered as he brought his palms together before his chest. He repeated the prayer over and over again, his words a steady stream of faith and devotion. The Mother Ma’Nada, though fierce and powerful in the many stories of his faith, had always bestowed good fortune on Peter. The loving goddess had never abandoned him through his many battles, and he held tight to his faith with white-knuckled determination.
The storm began its rhythmic song as the wind whistled through the empty grounds of Sierra Village, picking up speed and rattling the fragile windowpanes in Peter’s kitchen. His eyes flicked back over to where Camille slept, her vivid red hair cascading over her shoulders in wild curls. Though he couldn’t see them now, he’d been utterly surprised earlier to learn she possessed green irises identical to her mother’s. She looked so much like a normal girl of seventeen: lithe and gawky, with muscled biceps, curls that flowed halfway down her back, and a spray of freckles over her petite nose—but he knew better.
She was their only weapon against High King LeMarc. But, if she failed to learn to control the monster living inside her, no one would be able to survive her next explosion.
“Ad Astra per Aspera,” he whispered, sipping his tea. “To the stars through difficulty, Camille.”
Chapter Two
Hide and seek
Eleven moons later…
The sun hung low in the distant clouds, the branches above Camille’s head heavy with the multicolored leaves of early Fall. Camille was easily concealed behind an ancient trunk covered in sickly grey moss, yet her heart pounded all the same. A small, piercing ache to broke between her lungs. How long had she been running for this time? She heard soft steps closing in on her and knew her hiding spot wouldn’t last long. A twig snapped in the distance and her stomach twisted; it was time to relocate.
She could smell the tangy scent of his sweat; he was beginning to tire, but his footsteps were nearing. She racked her brain for a plan as she pressed aside a wayward branch, crouching in a hunting stance.
Her instincts told her to act first and think on her feet, and that innate, animalistic sense of battle preparation still startled her. How did she know these things? The storm flowing in over the Iron Mountains visible just north between the treetops and the valley twenty feet to the west had a fourteen-degree downward slope. Slight, yes—but enough to enhance her speed by fifteen percent if she really pushed herself. She never could figure out how she was able to make these automatic calculations, but they were useful in her hunting process nonetheless. Mainly when she was the one being hunted.
Camille leaped from her temporary sanctuary and dove toward the heavy brush five feet to her left, swiftly running down the sloping valley deeper into the woods. She heard his soft footfalls turn to heavy thudding as he crashed through the dense forest, speeding like a raging bull in her direction.
Ducking behind another large aspen trunk, Camille held her breath, forcing herself to remain silent as she dug her nails into the thick tree bark. She heard the assailant stop just behind her new hiding spot, and her heart slammed against the confines of her ribs.
Camille closed her eyes and prayed the forest would grant her a reprieve; that some branch might fall to the earth and create a diversion, or some bird might fly past so she could sneak away.
“Ah ha!” the little boy screamed as he jumped around the wide tree trunk followed by a mewling Neeko. “That’s three for me. I found you in less than forty minutes this time,and without any help from my handy hunting partner,” Lunci exclaimed happily, before performing a little victory dance.
“You are a worthy opponent in this game of hide-and-seek,” Camille said, unable to restrain the enormous smile streaking across her face. They’d been playing all day, and still, he wasn’t tired of it. Nor was she, in all honesty. Camille loved the moments she shared with Lunci, even though she was almost ten years his senior. He reminded her of what it was like to be a kid again, and considering she couldn’t remember her own childhood, Camille welcomed the chance to live vicariously through Lunci whenever possible.
Lunci was unusual for a nine-year-old. He never wanted to hunt with boys his own age, and girls who glanced at him with innocent flirtation received nothing more than a sweet smile and a passing glance. Peter passed it off as nothing more than a young state of mind, but as much as Camille loved Lunci’s penchant for fun, she felt his childlike demeanor stemmed from something deeper; perhaps even something traumatic.
“Round four?” Lunci asked with a grin, one that Camille knew would disappear when she informed him it was getting too late to play in the deepness of the forest they’d migrated to.
Although they were still within the gated confines of Sierra Village, they were far enough away to cause Peter to worry. “It’s getting pretty late there, mister. I think we should start heading back. Your grandfather will have my head if I keep you in the forest past sundown.”
“Awww—come on!” Lunci whined. She feigned toying with the idea of refusing him, loving the way he stamped his feet and kept repeating, “Please, please, please!” with his hands clasped.
“Okay, one last time. But after that we are going home,” Camille said sternly, making a mental note to pick a secure hiding spot that was within sight of the village grounds. Lunci broke out into another little jig before slumping to the ground, hands over his eyes as he began to count backward from thirty.
She ran a medium distance away, making sure to keep Lunci within earshot, taking heavy steps so he could detect her path more easily. She never dared go too far from him and held her hunting knife with her just in case any real predators decided to join the game. Despite the fact it was her day off from hunting, Camille wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to bring fresh game home for Peter to sell.
“All right, ready or not, here I come!” Lunci yelled into the thick foliage.
Camille smiled when she heard him rustle through the same bush she’d just passed a few moments earlier. He usually spent a few moments trying to decide which direction she’d gone in, but apparently, he’d conveniently forgotten to close his eyes this time. She took extreme pride in his growing abilities to track prey. It was a small lesson she carefully explained over their months of weekly playtime, but she would let this little cheat slide under the radar.
Camille made a quiet trek back up the sloping valley toward Sierra Village, ensuring she heard Lunci’s footsteps close behind her. Her stomach growled at the idea of dinner filling her to near-bursting, but tonight’s offering would only be a small plate of food despite the fact she lived with the village butcher.
It was two days before the Moon Tax was due, and only the wealthy didn’t dread the offering. The rest of the village scrounged for food to meet the High Court’s demands, but luckily Camille’s hunting skills and market trades kept Peter’s table filled through most of the month.
At the end of every moon cycle the buffoon Grenswald, a foul-mouthed, grubby man thicker than he was tall, came to town in a cloud of stale whiskey and body odor. He would barrel his way from door to door, collecting items he deemed “presentable” to the High King’s court. Even though Camille had only lived in Sierra Village for a year, she clearly understood what it meant to hate the High King, his cruel Moon Tax, and the disgusting people he kept readily at his beck and call to maintain total sovereignty.
Camille led Lunci further up the hill toward the heart of the village, snapping twigs and rustling leaves as she did so. Ducking around a relatively large boulder and scurrying through a thick bush, she hid, waiting for Lunci to reach her spot. She hunched down and slowed her breath to an inaudible pace, but after a few moments realized she no longer heard Lunci in the distance.
Her stomach clenched, a searing jolt of panic zipping through her system at the sudden silence of her surroundings. What if Lunci was hurt? Would she have heard Lunci if he screamed? Camille bounded out of the underbrush and still heard nothing but her own ragged breaths—not even a distant bird call. Something was wrong. She felt the unleashed gallop of her heart pounding out a thunderous tempo inside her chest. Usually, Neeko would bounce back and forth between her and Lunci, his tracking senses far superior to any human’s. But she didn’t even see his bushy black tail anywhere amongst the darkening forest terrain.
No need to panic, she reminded herself, trying to calm the erratic burst of fear crashing through her body. Last week, Lunci had gotten distracted by a small family of squirrels in the trees, but Camille had been high up on the hill and observed him the entire time. This was different. She couldn’t hear him at all, couldn’t see him, and the forest’s ever-present cacophony of twitters had stilled.
The eerie silence cut into her calm reserve, grating against her skin with unrelenting harshness, and just like when she slipped into hunting mode, a tingling, unnatural heat grew beneath her eye sockets.
She grasped her hunting knife tightly before racing back through the forest along the path she’d just taken. This time she was silent, shifting through the damp leaves and twigs beneath her feet without the slightest sound. In the distance were heavy footfalls pounding against the earth directly north of where she’d last heard Lunci.
“Please don’t be hurt; please be ok,” she whispered on repeat under her breath as she moved. There was no way she would allow the what ifs to cloud her focus. Lunci had to be ok, she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if anything happened to him.
Rounding a tree she’d passed earlier, Camille stopped dead in her tracks to listen. She heard distant voices from the village, a subtle hum of wind whistling through the trees, but no sign of the boy.
“Lunci?” Camille said evenly, trying to keep her voice neutral. “Lunci, it’s time to get home now.” Nothing.
“Lunci! Neeko!” Camille repeated, not caring any longer whether she sounded worried.
What if he was on the ground bleeding from an attack? What if she’d overestimated her ability to keep him protected from such a distance?
An internal flood of dread permeated her system making it almost impossible to think—and that’s when she saw them through a thick bramble bush: heavy-lidded, blood-red eyes the size of her fists and oddly human in appearance.
Fear invaded her senses, leaving her frozen on the spot. She’d heard of a shadow beast, a monster roaming Aspera in the dead of night: The Chimera.
Soft footsteps came treading up the path behind her, and Camille’s back went rigid; Lunci had found her.
“Lunci! Don’t come any closer,” she instructed, keeping her focus on the stark red eyes. Her tear ducts began to water in her desperation to keep the red eyes in sight, but the moment she blinked, the gleaming red stare was gone. She held stiff and silent, counting the seconds before the monster decided to attack.
“A little jumpy there, sweetheart?”
Camille leaped a foot in the air as a sultry voice assaulted her tender, overly aware ears. Whipping around with her knife at the ready, she careened off-focus when she located the man who’d addressed her. “Who are you?”
Leaning against an ancient tree, arms casually folded across his chest, stood a young man not much older than she. Blonde wavy hair fell back from his angular face, with both sides shaved and the top left long. The man dragged a hand through his thick strands, gaze never leaving her. His irises were the strangest hue Camille had ever seen: a bleached blue, almost devoid of color; like the bright tinge of the sky at high noon.
“Well hello to you too,” he responded, pushing away from the trunk to saunter closer, a broad grin spanning his face. He glanced at the dagger she still held and chuckled. “You thinking of stabbing me? Or do I get a proper hello?”
Camille kept the knife raised, a slight tremor in her hand. “Stay back stranger, who are you?”
She fought to keep the raging monster coiling inside her from surging to the forefront. She’d spent the past eleven moons working to keep her inner beast on a tight leash. It had taken several moon cycles living under Peter’s roof to understand that her wild range of emotions didn’t have a specified direction or focus. When she was happy, she was ecstatic; when Camille was annoyed, she became unreachable; fear turned into unimaginable terror, and anger transformed into explosive fury. Nothing was at equilibrium within Camille, raging out of control at the tiniest shift.
The stranger’s brows knit together with apparent confusion, his lips pursing in contemplation. “Do you not recognize me?” he asked softly, all form of humor dissipating.
“No,” Camille snapped. “Should I?”
“How long have you lived in this village?” he said, ignoring her question.
“That’s none of your business.”
He shook his head. “Can’t have been more than a few months; maybe a year. Sweet Mother Ma’Nada, I can’t believe it. It is you, Camille?”
How does he know my name? Camille narrowed her eyes, taking in his appearance. She noticed three hefty throwing daggers and a short-nosed sword with an ample blade. His clothes were well-fitted and made for travel; a loose cotton shirt and black vest were layered beneath a brown leather coat, and black pants tucked into dirty black leather boots. She could smell the bag of coin hanging on his hip filled with copper duggars, silver rubles, and golden gilders—enough money to buy a year’s worth of food for Peter and Lunci.
“Who are you?” Camille insisted, glancing around for any sign of the boy.
“A drifter. I have no name,” he said sarcastically, flinging his arms out like he was presenting himself to the royal court.
“What do people call you then?” Camille retorted.
He smiled. “You can call me anything you like, sweetheart.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at her, drawing closer.
“What are you doing in my woods then, Drifter? And how do you know who I am?” Camille asked, instinctively stepping back. She continued to scan the forest in a slight panic, still unable to detect Lunci or Neeko nearby.
“Your woods?” he said, the corners of his lips quirking. He was annoyingly easy to look at, and Camille found it very distracting. His left cheek boasted a soft dimple with every smirk and smile—an uneven flaw in most but endearing on him. “I didn’t realize these trees were spoken for.”
“You’re in Sierra Village. You aren’t one of us. So, who are you? And how did you get past the guard tower?”
“Your ‘guards’ are quite seriously the most moronic Asperians I’ve ever seen. Those lazy bastards wouldn’t know how to guard their dinner against a pack of puppies, let alone an entire village against a Chimera attack. I mean, honestly,” the drifter continued, ignoring Camille’s incredulous expression as he took another step toward her. “Now—are you planning on putting down that little toy of yours?”
“No!” Camille shot back, lifting her dagger more prominently in front of her. “Not until I know whether you did anything to Lunci.”
“Ah, I see,” the stranger cooed, looking to his right and left in a conspiratorial fashion. “You’re looking for the little blonde boy, yes?”
“If you hurt him, so help me—”
“Whoa, whoa…easy there, sweetheart. He’s fine. The boy’s about fifty yards south of us.” The drifter rubbed at the back of his neck, and Camille was immediately drawn to the flexing of his muscles.
Every facet of the stranger seemed slightly familiar to her: his mannerisms, his movements, his voice. The man’s scent, especially: it was one of oak and pine, soap and musk, and it sent her pulse galloping.
“How do you know where he is?” she growled, trying to keep her anger from building further.
“Ease up Cam, your temper isn’t necessary.”
She felt a pinch embarrassed but wasn’t ready to let down her guard. The stranger seemed to understand this and sighed loudly, his shoulders slipping with apparent perplexity. “Perhaps if you dialed back that temper, you would’ve been able to deduce his location yourself,” he snapped, looking to a spot just over Camille’s shoulder.
Camille didn’t want to glance away from the drifter for even a second, but Lunci’s careless steps were approaching. She took one more step away from the man before spinning to face the rustling leaves on her left.
Lunci broke through the bushes in a childlike gallop. “I got you! Thought you could hide from me, but none can escape the power of the incredible Lunci!”
Lunci leaped at her with careless abandon. Camille twisted away to avoid stabbing him, causing the silver amulet she always kept hidden under her clothing to swing free, pinging loudly against the flat side of the blade.
“What’s wrong?” Lunci rasped, eyes going wide at the sight of the knife.
Neeko picked that moment to join them, a low and menacing hiss escaping his throat as he stared at the spot where the red-eyed beast had been.
Camille whipped about, searching the now-vacant spot where the drifter had stood. “Neeko, do you smell something?” Camille whispered. Neeko hissed in response, the fur bunching up around his neck as his tail swished back and forth.
“Camille, what’s going on?” Lunci’s voice shook as he edged closer to her, looking in the direction Neeko hissed.
“Where were you?” Camille said, grabbing Lunci’s hand as her emerald eyes scanned the bushes for a pair of blood-red ones. She led them quickly around fallen trees and piles of dead leaves, constantly scanning their surroundings as they followed the slope of the hill toward the village.
“Where was I?” Lunci said, sounding confused. “I was looking for you! Why’d you quit hiding?”
Camille didn’t answer. Instead, she continued to drag Lunci toward the safety of the village. As they left the tree line, Camille stole one more glance into the forest edge searching for the truth of what she’d seen. Without warning, Lunci’s hand slipped from her grasp, and the side of her face smacked into a solid, hairy body that reeked of stale fish and week-old perspiration.
Stay tuned for Chapter 3……

Hello Peeps!
I am SO very excited to share chapter one of my very LONG AWAITED (well, for me anyways) book release for PRAETORIAN RISING. I am getting closer every day to the final release and I wanted to give my loyal readers and followers a little sneak peek into the opening of this story, the world and some of my favorite characters.
Don’t worry, I won’t leave you hanging. I plan to release Chapter Two and Three prior to the book release, so you will definitely have some additional Chapters to keep you going until this book is on the market!
A couple of other side notes – The Book Cover reveal is soon to come! I am working away with my artist and am looking forward to getting this one wrapped up in very short order.
Can’t wait to hear your feedback, I can’t wait to see your reactions! Enjoy this first chapter my peeps. Without further discussion, here it is:
PRAETORIAN RISING
Chapter One: Lost Memory
Wind whistled through the dense overgrowth of Dun L’er Forest, a high-pitched whir of warning dogging his every step. The rustling maple and stark pine hunched like ghostly sentinels, the foggy fingers of breaking dawn stretching toward him as he ran. They were watching him, the ancient eyes of the forest, their aged and weathered limbs creaking against the pressured air. They would hold his secrets in their entombed silence, but the gods knew what he’d done.
Vesyon ignored the tickle of panic slipping down his spine, a rivulet of ice pushing his legs to move ever faster. There was no going back now, the deed was done. He had her. They had escaped.
“We’re almost there,” he whispered as he readjusted the precious form cradled in his arms. Tucking away the young woman’s hair beneath the dense fur of his cloak, he pushed through a bramble bush as he continued south toward Sierra Village. Thankfully the beasts tracking him had seemingly lost his scent miles behind his current location. He no longer heard the crash of paw racing on his heels. Despite the small reprieve, he’d kept moving with haste. One could never hide from the High Court for long within the depths of Aspera. The eyes of the crown stretched far and wide.
He was vividly aware of the danger encroaching as he pressed into the barrier lines of Sierra Village, especially if anyone saw the young woman with the brilliant tumble of red locks tucked in his arms. Thankfully his destination wasn’t far—just beyond the forest’s edge—but he could never be too careful.
Her breath was warm against the crook of his neck, a slow and steady reminder of the depth of her induced sleep. He was grateful for it, wishing she could remain in the peaceful swirl of dreams instead of wake into the harsh reality of her impending future.
A mysterious and silent creature followed him in quick pursuit, dodging between bush and boulder to keep up with Vesyon’s steady gait through the dense forest terrain. Short tufts of black and brown fur helped camouflage the creature’s every move, allowing him to accomplish his task of the silent companion with pristine perfection. After so many years together, Vesyon couldn’t help but think of his small feline friend, Neeko, as one of his closest confidantes.
Up ahead past the battered wooden fence skirting Sierra Village, he saw a dulled lamp light flickering wildly among the gray infused morning. The orange glow of electricity was like a beacon, perched on top of a well-weathered cabin. He hurried toward the sagging walls and ancient slatted roof with eager anticipation.
An elderly man with a grizzled gray beard stepped out of the low-slung doorway, a look of intrigue and growing curiosity spilling across his weathered face. His milky blue eyes fixed quizzically on Vesyon’s young face, the old man’s features were lined with the weight of age compared to the bold steady edges of Vesyon’s youthful appearance.
“It’s been a long time, my dear friend,” the aging man, Peter Shroder, remarked with a simple mischievous grin. “I’m surprised the guards let you sneak by.” His anxious blue gaze swept over the deserted village grounds, his caterpillar brows furrowing into a single line over squinted blue triangles. The cracked skin of Vesyon’s lips stretched wide in humor, affectionately watching as Peter caressed the dagger hidden at his waistband like a cherished friend. Being the town butcher had its positives for Peter; no one questioned his love of sharp blades.
“Too long,” Vesyon replied in earnest agreement as he readjusted the sleeping woman and ducked through the cabin’s doorway.
A flickering expression of shocked bewilderment swam across Peter’s face as he glared at what Vesyon held in his arms. Would she remember the old man, or would she dismiss him as a complete stranger? Vesyon couldn’t be sure. His eyes traversed the broad lines of the man’s face in grave worry, not wanting to introduce his old friend to the storm of chaos she would invoke, yet knowing he had few options available.
“You weren’t followed?” Peter asked though he knew the answer. Vesyon wouldn’t be in his home if he were tracked. It didn’t mean they were safe, it just said they had a little time to discuss details. Vesyon shook his head before setting the young sleeping woman down on the fire warmed hearth, bringing the wrap of fur blankets more securely around her shoulders.
The old man’s cabin was nothing more than a single room; kitchen, living room and bedroom were all combined, scarcely lit by one swinging bulb over the kitchen table and a glowing fire in the corner. Electricity was quite a luxury in the rundown Villages of Aspera, but Sierra Village seemed to make do with what they had. Peter, despite the electric icebox in his butchery, kept his personal home almost wholly stripped of those technological advancements the wealthier villagers had. The old man wasn’t one for fancy when he had a simple and functioning home.
Above their heads through the latticework was an attic large enough for the eight-year-old boy who’d been snoring softly through the late-night commotion, undisturbed and seemingly unaware. Peter’s home was small, but cozy, a welcoming stop after a very long journey through the wilderness of Aspera.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” Peter said, his tone strained yet friendly. Trespassers weren’t welcome in the village, and Vesyon was well aware of the consequences if he were caught inside the grounds by the wrong person.
“I had little choice,” he replied smoothly. Which was almost right, but he wasn’t ready to think over the details of his decision. Few were trusted by Vesyon like Peter was a hardened man through experience but with a wide-open heart and unending compassion for those without a leg to stand on. Leaving the woman in Peter’s capable hands was the safest choice imaginable.
Peter’s lips parted as though to speak, his features laced with hesitation. “You really think she’s ready for this?” he asked, nodding his head toward the still-unmoving girl on the hearth.
It was a substantial question. Vesyon wasn’t sure of the answer himself. He sat down on a wicker stool, pulling the heavy fur cloak from his shoulders. The glowing heat billowing from the hearth felt good, and he closed his eyes in a moment of peace within the comfort of warmth.
Removing a rusted poker from its hook on the wall, Peter shuffled the coals in the hearth with quick, sharp stabs, stoking the smoldering wood into a soft flame. A curling smile lifted the corner’s of Vesyon’s lips as he observed Peter’s strength through the lowered sweep of his sooty lash. Despite the frailty infused after years of use, the man held his own. His age-spotted hands and knobby knuckles seemed a mere facade of old age.
Approving of his freshly stoked fire, Peter nodded once before grabbing a plate of meat slices from the kitchen table and offering them to Vesyon.
“I have no idea,” Vesyon finally replied, politely declining the offer of sustenance. Instead, Vesyon pulled a worn pipe from his cloak, spreading open a thin canvas bag filled with the dried leaves of his favorite tobacco. He carefully pressed the delicate tobacco bits into the wide pipe end and stared at the dancing flame in the hearth with a sense of momentary calm. It wouldn’t last, he knew that. The second he walked out the door the chaos would consume him once again. It was just a few minutes reprieve, a moment to catch his breath, he told himself even as his legs twitched to be on the move again.
“LeMarc had her locked in his dungeon for the past seven years,” Vesyon said, his voice tinged with a hint of vexation as he pulled a knife and flint stone from his pocket.
He noted Peter’s stern glare of Vesyon’s disrespectful use of the High King’s first name, but Vesyon ignored the wide-eyed rebuke. He’d never think of LeMarc Lowenhaar as a King, let alone the High King of Aspera. The man was a deceitful, power-hungry monster. Vesyon saw no reason to show the man any sort of respect whether in his presence or not.
“We honestly can’t be certain of anything.” Vesyon lit his pipe and puffed three times in quick succession to catch flame on the dried leaves. The sweet tang of tobacco smoke filled Vesyon’s lungs, and he sighed in silent relief at the tingling sensation buzzing through his veins as he exhaled.
Peter’s gaze shifted to the bundle of fur by the hearth and landed on the heavy brown boots poking out the bottom. “She looks too fragile. Is there no other option? No one else?”
Vesyon turned from the flame to glance back at the girl, studying her delicate features currently highlighted by the glow of the fire. Peter was right; despite her age, she looked too young and innocent for such a battle. She was someone he would give his life for, and Vesyon hated knowing what she was about to endure. “She’s all we have. Our rebellion can’t wait for a second longer—she must be prepared.”
“How long will she need to be here?” Peter whispered, pulling the fur blankets more securely around the young woman. Bitter fall air seeped through a cracked windowpane, and noticeably Peter shivered—Vesyon wasn’t sure whether it was from the weather, or the heavy responsibility he’d just heaped on the old man’s shoulders. “It’s going to take time to assess how destructive her induced amnesia is. From what Langhorn expressed to me, she might not remember anything at all.”
Vesyon’s upper lip twitched downward at Peter’s probing words, a subtle tic of his displeasure he tried his best to hide. He hoped she would remember nothing, prayed what Langhorn had done would work. Her memory had been obliterated from everything she’d endured over the last seven years; if she were lucky, she would wake up without recalling even the smallest detail of her life before that point. It was cruel to rip away someone’s identity in such a manner, but they’d had no choice. If even an inkling of her memories survived, they would all pay for the atrocious and horrible things inflicted on her mind, body, and soul while she’d been locked inside LeMarc’s torture chamber.
Peter’s eyes assessed Vesyon’s unshaven face before he lowered his creaky body onto the stool placed near the fireplace. Bones snapped and popped as he settled into the sagging wicker, reminding Vesyon of the extreme fragility most Asperians seemed to develop from lack of proper nutrients over the years. He couldn’t restrain the wince of barely concealed worry from flickering across his features, but thankfully Peter didn’t appear to notice.
“Tea?” Peter asked, pushing a heavy blackened pot into heat.
Vesyon nodded, knowing he should leave with quickened haste, but felt it would be rude not to partake in such a quick and pure comfort. He had asked Peter for an incredible favor, it was his duty to give the elderly man a moment of his company despite his growing urgency to leave the quiet confines of the cabin. No one knew he was here. He had the time to drink a cup of tea, but only one cup.
“Do you have an idea of where the High King is?” Peter asked as he handed Vesyon a steaming cup of lavender tea.
Vesyon habitually blew across the rim of the dingy grey mug, watching the wafting tendrils of steam curl into the bitter air and disperse like mysterious ghosts. “I don’t have a clue,” he replied without pause. “Metus…,”
“The King Regent,” Peter snapped, correcting Vesyon’s slip.
“Yes,” Vesyon replied trying to hide the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Peter hated the High King and the King Regent as much as anyone involved with the rebellion, but he was a stern believer in respectful attitudes toward those in power, and Vesyon wasn’t one to press too hard on that button. “He is still managing the throne and has been since the Praetorian Exile. However, I don’t believe for a second LeMa..the High King,” Vesyon corrected smoothly. “He won’t be idly sitting by. His absence is worrisome, but more than that, his complete silence over the last seven years proves Langhorn right. The High King is up to something of grand proportions, and I want to ensure I’m ready when he lays out his cards.”
Glancing out the frost-riddled window, Vesyon smiled with genuine affection at Neeko, whose mouth was currently full of fresh forest mice as he stood guard like a sentinel on the windowsill. It had been a good idea to bring him along. The thought of leaving the woman to her own devices there in Sierra Village deeply troubled Vesyon; but he saw no way around it. He knew she would be safe with Peter—as safe as she could be until Vesyon returned.
Just beyond the cat’s darkened form, he studied the thick clouds rolling in over the forest canopy. A storm was coming. It was time to leave. There was still so much he had to do, and not nearly enough time to accomplish it.
Tipping his tea glass up, Vesyon took a hefty gulp of the delicious liquid and almost choked as the scorching heat burned down his throat warming the confines of his belly. He grunted once in mild discomfort before the burning sensation dispersed as though it hadn’t happened. Peter eyed him with an arched brow of concern and mild bemusement, but Vesyon waved him off and blew more intently on his tea. “I can’t thank you enough for this Peter. I have no possible way to repay you for taking care of her.”
Peter shook his head, a tender grin running over his lips. “Consider it a payment repaid to a dear friend, one very much deserved mind you.” Vesyon opened his mouth to protest, but Peter raised a withered hand warding off even the smallest objection. “I have always hated being in debt to favors, even when it comes to friends. As I see it now, watching over her is a small contribution to pay for what you have given me these past years. If my wife were here, or my daughter,” Peter said, a glistening tear pricking at the corners of his eye. “They would have said the same.”
Vesyon felt the zing of guilt deep in his chest at the mention of Peter’s family, his loved ones that hadn’t escaped the slaughter. He only had to close his eyes to see their hallowed faces again, thick red blood run down from the open gash in their throats. Twin bodies slumped to the ground, lifeless. He couldn’t nod in agreement with Peter. The man was giving far more than Vesyon had ever been able to give back. It wasn’t a fair bargain, but Vesyon had little choice but to accept that as payment repaid.
“Knowing she’s with you puts the fear at bay,” Vesyon said with genuine frankness, his gaze drifting back to the young woman’s face as he now carefully sipped his moderately scalding tea.
“Well, she’ll be with me and your little furry shadow,” Peter chuckled, his milky iris’s twinkling with mirth. “I might just bore that poor cat to tears in this village. The most exciting adventure he’ll have is chasing down a rat. Are you sure he is actually willing to stay?”
Vesyon eyed Neeko perched at the window, his stoic haunches barely twitching from the bitter rush of wind snaking down the mountain and through the village grounds. He would miss the little furball, but it was the only protection he could provide that would remain at Camille’s side. In the coming moon cycles, she would need security and companionship. “Willing is a strong word,” Vesyon replied with a slight smirk as he dumped the ashy remains of his tobacco into the dwindling flames of the fire. “He’ll stick by her though, and that’s what she’ll need.”
“Well as far as Count Jenkin’s is aware, I have a distant relative staying with me until further notice. He’ll meet her as soon as she acclimates to the village. I don’t expect a warm welcome,” Peter said with a slight frown. It was not an uncommon practice to be wary of outsiders, or random trades-folk. Pretending the woman was a distant relative of Peter had been the only way Vesyon could be certain she wouldn’t be shunned or even forcibly removed. Sierra Village wasn’t in the practice of being hospitable to strange folk, and despite every excuse Vesyon had fed himself of keeping Camille close at hand, he knew this was ultimately the best plan of action. “But they will accept her well enough,” Peter assured, assessing Vesyon’s pinched expression with obvious concern.
“She’s with you Peter, I have no doubts she’ll be in good hands. Teach her everything you know about hunting, trapping, and tracking. She’ll be a bit rusty when she wakes.”
Peter nodded in understanding. “Any idea when you’ll come back for her?” he asked, taking the half-empty teacup from Vesyon’s hand and placing it on the bare kitchen table with a subtle ‘clink.’ As the flames of the fire stretched out its last arm in a dance of withering energy, Vesyon packed up his pipe and tobacco before shrugging into the heavy warmth of his fur-lined cloak.
“You have twelve moon cycles. I will come for her then,” he said. Their eyes met, and they grasped each other’s hand in farewell. Peter’s shake was firm, but Vesyon felt the tremble beneath the steel exterior. Without a word of explanation, Vesyon retrieved the heavy iron pistol from his belt and placed it on the rickety table near the door. The smell of gunpowder singed the lining of his nostrils, sharp and bitter and recognizable to any warrior.
Peter eyed the weapon wearily. “Is that necessary?”
“Just in case,” Vesyon said with a final swift glance at the woman fully shrouded in fur blankets. “I’ve given you two bullets. It’s all I have left. Hopefully, it’s enough for you and Lunci if our plan turns south.”
A heavy silence filled the air with Vesyon’s clear intention. No words were needed to explain; Peter seemed to understand the weight of his role in Vesyon’s plan as well as the consequences. Without hesitation, Peter nodded. “She’ll be ready.”
“Keep her safe Peter; keep her hidden from the High Court. No one must know she’s here.”
Peter stared at him, his wild caterpillar eyebrows dipping over squinted blue triangles before consenting with a curt nod.
“I need to get back to Romeo Village before the High Court realizes what I took from them—I can’t leave Phillip alone with the mess they’re in right now. The poor man hasn’t yet recovered from what happened in Charlie Town.”
Peter raised an impatient hand at Vesyon’s rushed words. “I know, no need to explain.”
Vesyon could see Peter empathized with the extreme conditions he’d endured to free the woman from the LeMarc’s grasp, and knew the consequences of what would happen if anyone found her in Sierra Village. There was no other route, no other option. They had one path: forward.
With a quick nod of appreciation, Vesyon ducked out the wooden door to disappear into the darkness of the forest edge, not once looking back.
***
The woman’s eyes fluttered open, and she shied away from the intruding light and heat that assaulted her fragile senses. She couldn’t place her location, and her back felt stiff and weary as though she hadn’t moved in ages.
“Awake, are you? It’s about time. You’ve been sleeping for days.”
The woman sought out the source of the voice; an old, scruffy man perched close to the glowing hearth. She didn’t consciously decide to snap to attention or rise from the fur blankets so that they pooled around her worn leather boots. She didn’t pay attention to the blade’s smooth wooden handle as she yanked it from the old man’s belt, and she didn’t hesitate before angling the freshly sharpened metal against his throat.
“Where am I?” the woman croaked. Her throat was raw as if she’d rubbed it with sandpaper. It felt like she hadn’t spoken in years. But that couldn’t be right, she’d just been… The woman stopped; she couldn’t remember where she’d last been. “Who are you, and what do you want with me?”
“I’m a friend, and I want nothing but to keep you safe.” the old man said carefully, holding himself stiffly against the blade. “Do you remember how you got here?”
She looked around the small room, noting small knick-knacks, a wooden bowl filled with overly ripe apples, and a bed-frame close to the hearth with a feather mattress and aged brown quilt. She wasn’t in prison or a holding cell; she was in the old man’s home—and a cozy one at that. A small iron kettle hung over the glowing coals, presumably filled with water to make tea. She smelled fresh rye bread in the pantry and smoked turkey wrapped in salted bindings being kept fresh inside a nearby icebox. “No,” she snapped out in sharp frustration. “Where am I?”
“Sierra Village. In my home,” the old man said, keeping his eyes locked on hers. “Hungry? I can make you something.” He gestured to the kitchen area, but she refused to look anywhere but at his face while deciding whether he was lying or not.
“No, I want answers. I don’t need your food.” Her stomach growled mightily just then, and the woman scowled.
“It would seem your stomach says otherwise. I’m not a threat, child; I’m here to help you.”
The woman pressed the knife more harshly against his skin. “‘Help me?’ You want to help me? Then give me answers!”
He stared at her blankly, and she seethed.
“Who are you?” the woman shouted wildly, body shaking in terror. “Help me by telling me who you are!”
“I won’t hurt you,” he said, raising his hands in a show of peace. “My bones are far too old and fragile.” The woman remained vigilant, blade to his throat, and the old man chuckled. “My name is Peter Schroder, and you’ve been in my care for a week. You won’t remember me, but we have met before.”
His features twitched, and she sensed a deep sadness emanating from his entire being as he spoke the words. Their last meeting hadn’t been a pleasant one, it seemed.
“Where? How do you know me? When did you last see me? When?!” The woman’s words tumbled out in rapid fire, but Peter remained calm and collected.
“I don’t have all the answers to your questions, child. But I promise you’re safe in my care.”
His response did nothing to temper her racing heart, but she removed the blade and stepped back. She remembered nothing about herself; not even her own name. Where had she been born? Who were her parents, and where were they? This man wasn’t familiar to her in any way.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, sitting on the bed once more and placing the knife beside her.
The woman pulled the furs more tightly around her shoulders, shaking her head. She’d smelled that knife, its hard steel tang, before visually locating it on Peter’s belt. She’d identified every entrance and possible exit in the tiny home before her fingers had even reached the blade—they amounted to four if she counted the little window above her head. She could also hear the soft rush of breath from a sleeping child just above her in a makeshift bedroom loft…all these skills, yet she couldn’t recall anything before the moment she’d awoken in Peter’s cabin.
Peter appeared to understand her fright and confusion and busied himself with stoking the fire into a decent flame as she angrily wiped the wetness from her eyes. “Your name is Camille Scipio, and you were brought to me eight nights ago by a close friend. I’m to care for you until he returns.”
“Cam-EE-ill,” she said, rolling the syllables of her first name around her tongue but feeling no familiarity.
“I have no doubt you’re wary of your surroundings right now, but in due time, things will come back to you,” Peter continued with a small smile.
Camille looked up at him with curious, searching eyes, before staring at the skinny black and brown cat by her feet. “That’s all you have to say?” Camille asked furtively, reaching down to scratch the cat’s furry head. How curious, she thought with each stroke, that this cat’s presence makes me feel…calmer.
“I’m afraid so. I’m to care for you until it is no longer needed. That’s all I know.”
“That doesn’t tell me anything,” Camille countered. “Who left me here? You said it was a ‘friend.’ Who were they, and how do they know me?” Her bottom lip poked out with indignant frustration as she glared at the man hoping her icy glare would force loose a sliver of information. The man remained unmoved like a new gravestone, unyielding and aloof hiding the depth of its secrets far beneath the surface.
“I can’t say any more, child. I apologize. But I can assure you that you’re safe and most welcome in my home,” Peter said, pouring Camille a steaming cup of tea.
She accepted the chipped stone-ware mug and sniffed at the purple-tinged liquid inside; it smelled flowery. “What’s this? Some sort of draught to knock me out?” Her stomach gurgled again in a desperate plea that she indulge the offering, despite her apparent misgivings.
Peter glanced at her with a comical expression as he pulled a slab of turkey from the icebox. “It’s just a cup of lavender tea.”
Camille couldn’t muster the energy to question him further, the heaviness of her eyelids dragging her down with more insistence than the hunger pangs. She consented to sip the warm liquid that tasted of lavender and mint. Giving a final pat to the cat as he cuddled against her hip, Camille laid back down on the flat feather pillow, immediately drifting off into a heavy sleep.
***
The wind picked up, whipping against the ancient trees of the Dun L’er Forest like a hungry monster, every branch alive in the sporadic dance of early fall. Nothing, not even the pounding sense of danger emitting from every wisp of wind, could dampen the relief Peter felt. The uprising was finally underway, a whisper of reckless abandon humming through the bitter air—and this time they’d be ready.
Peter shuffled from the kitchen counter to the whistling kettle to pour himself a fresh cup of tea before he settled down across from the sleeping Camille with a plate of turkey and cheese. Neeko was curled into a ball against her stomach, purring contently. The pair of them appeared at ease in their slumber, short-lived but much needed. It had been so long since he’d last seen her, but even to his old and frail eyes she hadn’t changed in the least.
He recalled the first time he’d seen her face, seven years before on a night bitter cold with the oncoming of winter. Her eyes had blazed a vivid red, and her entire body had been slathered in blood—she’d worn it like a token of achievement.
He should feel fear having her there after witnessing what she’d done to the ones he loved. Almost his entire family had been slaughtered right before his eyes, one after the next, in a swift slash of metal. Whoever hadn’t escaped his village when she’d arrived had been slaughtered—yet she’d left him and his grandson untouched. Not a word had been expressed, not a single sound had crossed her lips as she stared down at them, eyes ablaze with ballistic rage, before she turned and walked away.
He didn’t know then or now why she’d kept them alive, but it was enough of a reason to allow her into his home. Peter believed Vesyon—Camille was the key to their rebellion, and her past was not a reflection of who she was, but what she was capable of being. Aspera had suffered enough under the strong arm of the High King. Allowing this woman to sleep under his own roof was the least he could do to aid the rebellion if it kept their weapon safe from the High Court’s greedy fingers.
He’d made a promise to Vesyon, an honest vow to keep her protected and hidden no matter the consequences. Despite the truth of his word to lay down his life to protect Camille, his grandfatherly worry for the small child sleeping above their heads prickled against his conscience. But without her help in the rebel movement, Aspera would fall, and there’d be nothing left to fight for, and no viable future for his grandson Lunci.
“Please, Mother Ma’Nada, giver of life and protector of this land—please guard my family against evil,” Peter whispered as he brought his palms together before his chest. He repeated the prayer over and over again, his words a constant stream of steady faith and devotion. The Mother Ma’Nada, though fierce and powerful in the many stories of his faith, had always bestowed good fortune on Peter. The loving goddess had never abandoned him through his many battles, and he held tight to his faith with white-knuckled determination.
The storm began its rhythmic song as the wind whistled through the empty grounds of Sierra Village, picking up speed and rattling the fragile windowpanes in Peter’s kitchen. His eyes flicked back over to where Camille slept her vivid red hair cascaded over her shoulders in a wild array of curls. Though he couldn’t see them now, he’d been utterly surprised earlier to know that she possessed green irises just like her mother’s. She looked so much the normal girl of seventeen; lithe and gawky, with muscled biceps, curls that flowed halfway down her back, and a spray of freckles along the bridge of her petite nose—but he knew better.
She was their only weapon against High King LeMarc, but if she didn’t learn to control the monster living inside, no one would be able to survive her next explosion.
“Ad Astra per Aspera,” he whispered, sipping his warm tea. “To the stars through difficulty, Camille.”

Praetorian Rising Q & A
WITH GUEST WRITER Drew Menard
Ad Asta Per Aspera
It is the rallying cry of the Rogue Rebellion in “Praetorian Rising,” the debut novel from Jessie McSpadden. Translated, the phrase means “To the Stars Through Difficulty.” In the kingdom of Aspera, ruled by the cruel High King LeMarc Lowenhaar, hope is but a twinkle in the eye of a small batch of rogues, hoping to free their people and bring peace to the land.
McSpadden’s journey to publish “Praetorian Rising” was a labor of love, years in the making. But the world of Aspera is just beginning; she has a full series in the works. Read an interview with McSpadden on the first installment below. Get your copy of “Praetorian Rising” today on Amazon and join the Rogue Rebellion on social media, #PraetorianRising.
Drew: Tell us a little about yourself.
Jessie: To start I will say I never went to school to be a writer. I actually went to school to work in film. I wanted to be a CG animator, build things like dinosaurs and monsters. After watching Jurassic Park and Lord of the Rings, I wanted to know how to be a part of the film industry. After going to school and moving to Los Angeles, I spent a lot of time unemployed in the beginning, and I think it was a blessing in disguise. Most of my first few years living in Los Angeles, I wrote the skeleton of Praetorian Rising. Like I said, I didn’t have formal schooling in writing, and I definitely made a lot of mistakes. But since I was small, I have always been an avid reader. To know your craft you have to be an avid absorber of it. I don’t just read books though, I studied them. After about 3 years of just writing scenes and building these characters in my head I realized I had a story. Eight years later, I have not just one book but an entire world that I want to share with everyone, and truth be told I am quite anxious to tell this story. It’s a matter of time, and diligent writing to make sure I capture the story correctly! I won’t be a George R.R. Martin; I will get this series out faster than 8-10 years at a time!
We’re here to talk about the release of PRAETORIAN RISING! Can you give us an overview of the book?
Praetorian Rising starts with suspense, action, and intrigue from the first page. You are pulled into Camille’s story after she wakes in a strange village without any recollection of who she is. Soon, she is pulled into a rebellion against the High King of Aspera and she must decide if she is going to stand and fight alongside the Rogue Rebellion or flee. My goal with this series was to create a new fantasy world, filled with struggle, love, battles and adventure. In a way, write the story Tolkien might have written if he were actually a she. On a whole, I’d say it’s very much in the world setting of Hunger Games, Throne of Glass, and Lord of the Rings. It’s not Dystopian but more of its own world like Lord of the Rings.
Your cover is very compelling—I’m seeing a lot of emotion and mystery and getting some YA/fantasy vibes. What drives your protagonist? What kind of emotions will readers experience on this journey?
First, I have to say that my cover artist from Damonza did an INCREDIBLE job. I honestly couldn’t believe how perfectly they captured my vision of what I was trying to portray. What I wanted to showcase with the cover was the determination to move forward even if it was slightly against the Protagonist’s original nature. In the cover she is being propelled forward, and yet as much as she doesn’t want to, she is walking forward with sword in hand ready to fight. This book is very much an emotional rollercoaster in a way self-discovery books should be. Life isn’t moving at an even pace and I want Praetorian Rising and the world of Aspera to be realistic in how everyday people feel emotion: love, discomfort, uncertainty, frustration, jealousy, anger, excitement, and the most comforting of feeling at home. This book is meant to pull you in and make you feel what the characters are feeling from every side of the coin.
I’m a fan of stories with great villains. Who is your antagonist? For you, what was important in a villain to serve as a foil that truly challenges your heroes?
The main villain in this series is The High King of Aspera, LeMarc Lowenhaar. I too enjoy an amazing, creepy, and downright evil villain, but for me, a villain needs to have a purpose behind their motives. Without a reason for making their actions, there would be no purpose for them to be “evil.” Villains more than anything else need a history and a reason they diverted from the “light” so to speak. And LeMarc is a top-notch villain.
Could you introduce us to one of your supporting characters? Someone who perhaps doesn’t get the most spotlight but stands out to you?
For this book, an incredible supporting character is Charlie Ballen. She (yes, SHE) is a character I very much look forward to writing. Her story is incredible, and her back history is intense. What stands out most to me about her is the path that she is embarking on. The readers from the get-go of meeting her will see what I mean, but to put it in a non-spoiler light—Charlie struggles with what most of us women have to struggle with our whole life: proving we are strong, capable women who can take care of ourselves and yet ALSO have emotional needs. I look forward to her journey and hope that the readers enjoy her as much as I do!
What are some of the themes in this book?
One of the most important themes for me in this first book is self-discovery. I think from the get-go, Camille not knowing who she is or where she is in the very first chapter sets off a precedent of her needing to figure out what her story is. I think learning how to deal with your past and the consequences of how it affects your future is also a huge theme. There is a very strong undertone of pushing back against an oppressive ruler, which in today’s world, I am pulling A LOT from current events. Which to be honest is scary to say. But it’s true.
Are there any things that you hope readers will take away from the story?
I hope readers take away a sense of hope for a better future, and if not the full feeling of hope the understanding that fighting for what you believe in is the best thing you can do. I also think it’s important to see that protecting and caring for your loved ones is important, but sometimes you need to think outside the box. We are all humans, and we all need love, protection and a place to call home even if we don’t all look the same or come from the same places.
Let’s talk about your writing process.
Oh dear, OK well this is just a cluster in general! I mean, I doubt any writer, any artsy person can say that have a very strict “process.” I will say, however, I learned what NOT to do, and what did work in the eight years of working on this first book. I started out just writing. I had a scene, an idea and that was it. I wrote it down. And then I liked it so much, I liked the idea of Camille so much, that I wrote more scenes. Soon, I had a shit-ton of scenes and no story, so I had to backtrack and create a world. I realized that for me, and it’s different for everyone, that I work best knowing the outline of my story. Not EVERY scene, but I like to outline the action of what needs to happen. I need to know how I am going to move the story forward to ensure I don’t have ancillary crap that is just fluff…or as my editor likes to call it, “purple prose.”
How long has this story been with you?
Eight years, but I feel like the depth of the story and characters really became a full world to me about four years ago.
Where did the creative inspiration story come from?
Praetorian Rising was originally inspired by a song called Knights of Cydonia, by Muse. I saw a scene in my head play out like a movie and I very stereotypically JUMPED out of bed and ran to my desk and started to scribble out the base structure of the scene and the fiery red headed woman at the center of it. The next morning, I wrote the scene in full (which at the moment lives at the VERY END of Book 2—I know, a long way to wait my readers, but eventually I will get you there, I promise!) and I had not just a character but a conduit to share my experiences, my emotions and my take on what it means to be a woman fighting for her right to live and survive in a world dominated by men.
Talk a little about how you managed to get from that idea to where you are today, with a paper book in hand—lots of late nights? Early mornings? Typing through lunch break?
The bulk of my first draft was written while I was on the job. Massive thanks to my boss (you are the best Dave!) for letting me sit there and work on my book. But shhh, that’s a secret! When I wasn’t working—which in the film industry you work 12 hours minimum 6 days a week when starting in order to make a name for yourself—I was at home with my puppy and writing through the night. I am a night owl at heart. But as I’ve gotten older, my job has become more intense, and my weekends more packed up, it gets harder and harder to find the time. I have realized that I need peace and quiet, outdoor scenery, and lots of wine and coffee. I was able to push through the first draft of Book 2 in 5 weeks during nanowrimo2019 because I had no job then and LOTS of quiet time. If I don’t have that time, I do weekend getaways for small clips of days at a time. The alone time without social media is important!
What does it mean to you to finally see the book in print?
I cried. I had this biggest smile on my face and my cheeks hurt but I couldn’t stop smiling! Just over a year ago, right before my birthday, I told myself that enough was enough, no more waiting for someone to “find” me, no more asking an agent to back me, I was done! I wanted my dreams to come true and I wasn’t willing to wait anymore, so I went out and did it myself. To see it done and in my hands was the most surreal and wonderfully amazing feeling I have ever felt in my life. It’s the biggest accomplishment and honestly, the most satisfying thing about it is hearing all the positive feedback.
What do you enjoy writing the most in your stories: The action? The dialogue? The little character moments?
The dialogue is my ABSOLUTE favorite. I have LONG commutes (#LAtraffic) and I often will be thinking of a scene and the dialogue will always come to me first. I will hit record on my phone and even do voices of the characters as I drive…well really crawl…home from work. It always enables me to think through the mood of the scene and the purpose of the moment.
Next, I LOVE exposition and describing the characters. Digging into what makes a character them, and also what they do when in a scene is so enjoyable. Everyone has their ticks, and I love being able to capture them in a way to showcase to the reader an emotion I want them to feel without me having to say it.
What would you say to encourage or offer as advice for other aspiring authors seeking to tell their stories?
WRITE! Put down the phone, get off Instagram and write!! We will all be here when you come back, but don’t stop writing. I know it’s hard, trust me I work a very demanding job and I will go months without writing a word, but when the inspiration strikes make sure you get yourself to a place to write it down.
Second, I’d say go easy on yourself on the first and second draft. There are so many people out there willing to beta and edit that you need to stop trying to be perfect the first time around and just get the story and the mood of the characters on the page. Perfection comes in your final draft and even then, you will just have to tell yourself it’s time to move on and send your baby out into the world!
What’s next for you, now that you are a published author?
Well, first I grabbed a glass of whiskey and cheered with my husband that Praetorian Rising is a THING that is DONE!!! He has been the biggest support throughout all of this and celebrating with him was my number one. And now that the first one is out there for all to read, I am working diligently on Book 2! To say I am just getting started is an understatement. These characters, this world, and all that is in it are going to be going on a wild adventure. I sincerely hope that I can pull everyone along for the ride. It’s going to be INCREDIBLE.

Chapter Three
Ayya Sisters
“Watch it, idiot—oh, it’s you,” Grenswald rumbled, sneering down at Camille with cracked dirty lips and blackened rotting teeth. Camille despised him out of principal being a hired hand of the High Court, but her distaste for his proximity was more profound than his presence alone. His muddy brown eyes lit up at the sight of her, and Camille was positive he recalled the first time they’d met.
She hadn’t been in Sierra Village long, and most of the villagers kept their distance but for fake pleasantries when they saw her behind the butcher’s counter.
Grenswald hadn’t been too keen on making her feel welcome, and when she’d tried to hide a small apple away for Lunci during her first Moon Tax, the fat oaf had dragged her outside to make an example of her disobedience. He’d bellowed to the townspeople about the foul, beastly nature of those who stole from the High Kingdom, screaming that no crime would go unpunished. He’d gotten seventeen lashes in before the head guard stepped in, and Camille still couldn’t believe she’d restrained herself from throttling the man.
“Grenswald,” Camille nodded curtly, scanning the wagon he’d filled to the brim with cartons of meats, bread, and vegetables: the best Sierra Village had to offer.
Before she could get around the behemoth, Grenswald grabbed her upper arm with his grubby sausage fingers. “What do you have for the Moon Tax today? It’s two cartons this month, and you better not be hidin’ goods from the High Court again.”
“You’re here two days early,” Camille said, breathing through her mouth as wave upon wave of his stench assaulted her nose. As politely as she could manage, Camille removed his grotesque hand and looked up into his beady brown eyes, making sure to keep the hatred writhing in her body under control. Neeko sidled in front of her and hissed, and Grenswald took a few clumsy steps away.
“If you pardon me, sir, I’ll go collect a hearty payment for you right now,” Camille said through clenched teeth.
His eyes roved her body crudely, before landing just below the cavity of her neckline. “That’s a pretty trinket you got there,” Grenswald said, reaching for the slim silver amulet hanging from her neck.
There was no thought to her motion as Camille’s flat palm surged up into Grenswald’s nose, the flat expanse of her hand connecting with a sickening crunch of cartilage. He stumbled back a few steps away from her, his eyes now streaming with tears of pain.
“Yow bw-ok muh noh,” Grenswald mumbled through a gurgle of blood and mucus.
“You’ve been warned,” Camille roared with fierce intent. An explosion of anger burst out of her throat as she watched the man’s pathetic retreat. Her entire body tingled with power, her muscles coiled and primed for attack.
“Don’t ever touch my necklace. Don’t even look at it.” She grabbed the amulet with one hand as the warm rush of blood pooled behind her eyes, her gaze becoming sharper and ready for any unexpected movement. He would not be allowed to lay a hand on her again, consequences be damned.
Grenswald’s eyes widened, a mixture of fear and surprise spreading like wildfire across his features. “You’re a…a…” he said, stumbling back to slam into his wagon with a loud thump.
“Keep your distance from me, understand?” Camille snapped at him as he clutched at his nose with one hand. He nodded slightly, wincing at the pain of movement, but he didn’t advance on her.
“Oh dear,” Peter said just behind Camille’s shoulder. She tensed at the sound of his voice, uncertain how he would react to what had just happened. There weren’t a lot of bystanders, but enough for Grenswald to have witnesses of her attack. The sharp surge of anger that had taken over eased slightly as a fissure of worry crept through the barrier of her walled-in emotion. “Did you slip and fall Grenswald?”
Camille eyed the bleeding oaf through squinted lashes. The hefty weight of his body pressed against his cart as though his legs no longer worked. She silently dared him to speak. Staring Camille straight in the eye, he nodded his head, the jowls of his neck shaking with the effort of movement.
“Well that won’t do, so sorry to have kept you waiting! I have a hearty payment for you, nothing so inconsequential as a trinket of little value,” Peter said, his chin angling toward Camille still gripping her necklace with stern ferocity. “It’s just a piece of tin and painted glass, anyways—no worthy value to you or the High King.” The old butcher shoved two cartons filled with bread, vegetables, and a bag of fresh meat into Grenswald’s cart before handing him a slightly tattered handkerchief from his pocket.
“For the mishap,” Peter said with a heartwarming smile, as though offering a token of good will to a man in need. He then took Camille by the shirtsleeve and steered her home.
Camille fingered the amulet as they walked, tracing her thumb over the single red ruby it held. Soldered into the metal were branches bent to create a perfect circle, while the back of amulet was stamped with undefined ancient symbols. She kept anticipating Peter’s reprimand for losing her temper with the king’s henchman, but it never came. Instead, Peter silently ushered Camille and Lunci inside his cabin and set a pot of water boiling as Camille slumped into a chair.
“Camille!” Lunci shouted, dancing in front of the hearth. “Guess what?”
Camille quirked a brow at him, dropping the amulet back beneath her shirt front. “What?”
“Papa said we get to celebrate Fόmhair!”
“What’s ‘Fόmhair?'” Camille asked, massaging her aching temples. It had been an eventful afternoon, more than she’d anticipated, and her body was paying for it.
“It’s the best holiday ever!” Lunci exclaimed, practically swooning. “So much food!”
“And when was this decided?” Camille asked, peering at Peter.
“After all these years, the only thing you remember is the food,” Peter chuckled, disregarding Camille’s question. “That isn’t all there is to Fόmhair, my dear boy.”
Peter disappeared down the short hall to the adjoining butchery, no doubt to grab whatever little options he’d set aside for them that evening.
“It’s truly the best holiday,” Lunci continued. “There’s mountains of food, as well as dancing and singing.”
“In truth, it’s a heathen’s celebration,” Peter said from the kitchen. “But we allow the Katolites their interpretation of our holiday. For true Daeites and followers of Ma’Nada, Fόmhair is a day of celebration of the end. The end of long days and warm nights, the end of our harvesting season, and the celebration of those we’ve lost. It is a day of dancing, drinking, singing, and eating; but all together, it is to be a day of reflection and honoring of what is now past.”
“Oh,” Camille said in wonder. “That does sound delightful.”
“Tomorrow marks the thirtieth day of Deireadh Fόmhair, which will end the harvesting season before the onset of winter,” Peter continued as he busied himself around the kitchen.
“Count Jenkins has been storing apples for us this year, can you believe it?” Lunci said, his little body literally shaking with excitement. “We get to eat apples! And I heard Betty Anne is going to make her famous gingerbread loaf. Isn’t that great?”
“Yeah, sure.” Camille said with a small, wavering smile. It all sounded incredible, but she couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt. The Moon Tax was harsh, and many suffered through the season without much in their winter storage. Eating and drinking in such excess felt wrong.
“Don’t worry yourself,” Peter said from the doorway, eyes alight with mischief as he held a small plate of meat and cheese out for her. “The count and some of the wealthier villagers stored away additional food in the last couple months of harvesting. We’ve been lucky this year, my dear—far more than the last. No need to fret. Mother Ma’Nada has been kind with her blessings this year, and many want to share in the giving.”
“I don’t want to take what I haven’t earned,” Camille said, picking at her fingernails to avoid the kindness in Peter’s expression. “I don’t want to owe anyone anything.” As much as she knew the offer of food was an open invitation, she still felt as though she didn’t deserve to be a part of the treat. Despite her ability to be amongst the inner circle of Sierra Village, she still felt undeserving of its benefits, yet she couldn’t pinpoint why.
“You just might have to join the hunt the week, then. Fresh meat is more than enough of a contribution,” Peter answered with a sly smile, reading her expression keenly. “Perhaps even Lunci can join.”
“Join I will!” Lunci cried. “I will slay every last enemy and bring home food for twenty families!”
Both Peter and Camille laughed at the nine-year-old, but Camille couldn’t discount the shadow of worry that darkened Peter’s face as he watched his grandson.
She considered sharing her earlier encounters in the forest with Peter, but something about the interaction with the strange blue-eyed man made her want to keep it to herself. Also, a large part of her felt incredibly embarrassed about how close Lunci had gotten to danger under her protection, and there was no doubt he’d never be allowed to play in the woods again if she said anything.
They went about their nightly routine, picking through the oldest meat in the butchery that was still edible and stoking the fire to cook it. Peter reached for a loaf of bread and carefully picked off the staleness forming over the top, placing three thin slices on the rack beside the dancing flames. Lunci pulled a ripened tomato from the pantry store and sliced a couple of juicy sections off before handing them to Peter to roast over the fire.
It was a routine Camille cherished: huddling by the hearth to keep warm, clasping hands to pray to Mother Ma’Nada, and enjoying their meal together. Everything about their life felt natural to her, a comfortable sweater she’d worn many times before. It was in those moments that she felt like one of them, just as much as she felt like a complete and total outsider the rest of the time. Their routines and rituals weren’t hers; they were utterly foreign. Yet she pretended not to care that none of it belonged to her, instead smiling and giving thanks for the blessings bestowed upon her that day.
“Can we have a story tonight?” Lunci begged, plucking a small piece of mold from the edge of his bread before he took a hearty bite.
Peter smiled as he lowered himself on his weathered wicker stool stoking the flames into a steady crackling burn. “A story? I guess we can manage that,” he said with a jovial wink in Camille’s direction. “But only if you agree to the terms.”
Lunci beamed, his mouth splitting wide with an infectious smile. “Of course, I agree to the terms!”
“Which are?” Peter prompted, the stoker in hand resting the metal tip against the stone hearth like a cane.
Puffing up his chest with importance, Lunci lifted a single finger into the air. “Never repeat these stories outside of our home.”
“Yes,” Peter said with a nod as Lunci held up a second finger.
“Never discuss these stories with others outside of our family,” he said as a third finger popped up. “And never tell anyone of my love for the mother, Ma’Nada.”
Peter turned a severe eye on Camille, his blue eyes narrowed with intent.
“I won’t tell a soul, Peter,” she said without hesitation. She may not devoutly believe in the mother Ma’Nada as Peter and Lunci did, but she understood Peter’s reasoning for keeping his beliefs to himself. His faith in the mother was strictly forbidden within the borders of Aspera by order of the High King. Camille found she enjoyed Peter’s stories and didn’t want to jeopardize their tradition just because she didn’t believe it to be true.
“Which would you like to hear?” Peter asked as he returned to poking and prodding the coals into a dancing flame.
“Have you heard the story about the Ayya Sisters, Camille?” Lunci asked, bouncing up and down on his haunches like a puppy in anticipation of a meal.
“I don’t believe so,” Camille replied, taking a piece of sliced turkey and a chunk of cheese before settling down next to Neeko by the fireplace. She stroked the top of Neeko’s soft furry head as Peter began.
“Ma’Nada, the great mother of this world, has, since the birth of time, loved all living things. She did, however, form a tremendous kindred love for the moon and stars, the sun and knowledge of the world, and the many plush wonders within the Realm of the Five Shores. With her love for these elements, Ma’Nada gave life to three lovely Daughters: Buvona, Joanna, and Nimeha.
“Buvona was the protector of the night sky and those crossing into Cydonia, the land of everlasting life. Her hair raven black, her skin a warm honey brown, and eyes a fierce grey, Buvona was a dark Goddess and a brilliant light to behold. Joanna, the protector of the Sun and all organic life, had hair of fiery copper like a torching blaze on her head with eyes green as grass.”
“Like Camille!” Lunci pipped in.
“Yes, just like Camille,” Peter said with a smile.
“Then there was Nimeha, eldest of them all, the protector of time, wisdom, and fate. Right, Papa?” Lunci asked, his exuberance and enjoyment of the story infectious to Camille’s normal reserved state.
“Correct, my boy. Nimeha had the most beautiful hair, cascading down the length of her back, neither white nor blond, but a mix of the two slipping from tones of honey to the white iridescence of pearl. Her eyes were of the lightest amber, soft and inviting.”
Camille eased the stone pillar against her back, slipping into the story with ease as Peter’s slow rumbling voice continued. She enjoyed the stark tales of love and adventure, of loss and good fortune. Each story came with a strong message or warning, all she felt were slightly recognizable, but she could never place her finger on when she had heard the tale.
“The Daughters were often referred to as the Ayya, the three forms of life joined together in a circle of infinite growth and cycle of nature. Soon after enjoying the gift of new life and the exploration of their surroundings, it wasn’t long before the pang of loneliness struck them.
“Nimeha, understanding the workings of fate, had it in her mind that Ma’Nada wouldn’t leave them to suffer in longing. She patiently waited for her true love to find her. Joanna, walking the flat plains, grassy knolls, and rocky terrain of her lands, lived for the exploration and nurturing of life all around. She didn’t much mind the longing for human interaction as she had the animals and the trees to converse with. She kept a peace of mind, if not a slow yearning, knowing that her time would come. Buvona, fierce in stature and pressed into the darkness of their world, felt the sting of loneliness the most. She cared for those in passing and nurtured all who crossed the gates into Cydonia, but she could neither save them nor ease their pain. Buvona, youngest of the three sisters, felt cheated.”
Peter pulled the steaming kettle from the hook inside the hearth and went about pouring three cups of his specialty lavender mint tea. The earthy sweetness filled Camille’s nostrils, and she grabbed a slim slice of bread off the plate as Peter offered her the steaming cup. “Thank you,” she said quickly, not wanting to interrupt his story, but Peter continued with a mere nod of his head as he blew methodically on his own steaming cup of liquid.
“One night, Buvona begged for mercy from Ma’Nada, asking for the gift of man to bring her some sense of warmth and bond of family. Ma’Nada agreed, wanting love in her daughters’ lives. From the seeds of Ma’Nada’s womb, she gifted her daughters with three handsome men: Edis, Gideon, and Fotrix.
“Edis, a proud man with a penchant for the sea, took to Joanna, their mix of land and sea melting together as one. Their love true and bond secure, together they nurtured and protected not just their domains but also each other. Gideon, finding his passion in the craft of writing song and poetry, soothed his heart in the arms of Nimeha and her infinite knowledge. Fotrix was a sly trickster. Though joyous and bubbly at heart, he wasn’t honest or truthful. His passion was to manipulate, to trick, to deceive. His falsities and lies tricked Buvona, who was desperate for light and love in her life and fell deeply for the silver-haired fox.
“As Joanna and Nimeha explored the joys of love and blossoming family, Buvona remained sadly alone. Despite Fotrix’s expressed desire to love and cherish her, and his promise to build a family, Buvona walked the silvery nights alone and without any children to soften the harshness of being alone. In a spur of great cunning, Buvona devised a plan to trap Fotrix in the darkness of the underworld, allowing him only to roam the lands at the brightest of all full moons for her to easily find him.”
“I’ve always thought Fotrix deserved to be tricked,” Lunci spoke up, his lips pursed with intent thought.
“Oh?” Peter said, taking the pause in storytelling to sneak a bit of turkey between his lips. “Why is that?”
Lunci scrunched his tiny nose in thought, his sharp blue eyes watering with focused intensity. “Well, because he is mean. Buvona loves him and she is a caring, beautiful person, but he brings out the worst in her. He makes her look evil, even though she isn’t.”
“Keen observation,” Peter replied, nodding once in agreement.
“Please continue,” Camille spoke up, now profoundly intrigued with the tale.
With one quick gulp of tea, Peter quirked up an eyebrow in thought as though searching for the words rolling around somewhere in the confines of his brain. His lips pressed together, his eyes scrunched before his mouth popped open into an ‘o’ as though locating his mental bookmark and he continued the story.
“Fotrix didn’t like to be the center of a trick and loathed Buvona for succeeding in trapping him in the dark depth of the underground. He was allowed out into the open air once at every moon cycle when the fullness of its light could grace the lands with a bright silvery glow. It was on these nights that Buvona expected him to come to her, but that he did not. He instead enchanted the rocks, the trees, and the late-night animals to charm her while he planned a devious trick against her. Fotrix schemed to give a child to both Joanna and Nimeha, shielding their eyes for them to believe they lay with their lovers. Buvona, enchanted as well by Fotrix’s charm, thought herself to be full with child.
“In the following months, two beautiful girls were born: one to Joana, and one to Nimeha. The pair of the girls were clear images of Fotrix. The mothers didn’t want to forsake their newborn babes, but they realized at once what had happened. They waited for Buvona to step out of her underground home into the evening air that night and shared the news with her. Buvona, heartsick and anxious for her own child she was supposed to have birthed, looked upon these two baby girls and realized that her own pregnancy had also been a falsity.
“The girls were supposed to have been hers and Buvona, hating what Fotrix had done to her, snatched the newborn girls and pulled them down into the darkness of afterlife with both Nimeha and Joana helpless to stop her. Buvona, desperate to make Fotrix pay for his deceit, plagued the lovely daughters with an eternal curse of life and death. Eliza, born to Nimeha, was cursed to birth many children many times over in preparation of all battles. She alone would have the gift to birth an army of mass proportions. Morrighan, daughter of Joanna, was cursed with a touch of death to all living things. Buvona wanted nothing more than to end the life of her most hated enemy, and she spent her life using both Morrighan and Eliza to destroy Fotrix and kill him once and for all.”
Camille frowned, but Peter winked at her. “Not all of our sacred stories are happy ones, Camille.”
“Yes but, don’t you think it’s incredibly unfair for Buvona to have suffered so much when everyone around her was barely affected by the pain of loss and loneliness?”
Peter quirked a questioning brow at her. “You think she was the only one to suffer? The center of a storm isn’t typically where the damage happens, it’s only where the chaos begins, no?”
“Yes. Does she ever get him back for what he did to her?” Camille asked, her tea now completely gone, her hands gripping the empty mug with a bit more force than necessary.
Peter glared at her for a long and arduous moment, his milky eyes a depth of sorrow she couldn’t even begin to untangle. His face, though devoid of emotion, ripped a cavernous hole inside Camille, and yet she was unable to pinpoint its origin digging against the lining of her flesh.
“Lunci, my boy, go wash up. It’s time for bed.”
Lunci’s face crumpled into a heap of disappointment before Peter’s stern eye found him, and the little boy scurried down the dividing hall toward the washroom.
Camille remained where she sat, back straight as an arrow, her heart thudding in her chest. She couldn’t be sure where the impending sense of foreboding came from, but as Peter cleared away the plates and took a seat across from her once again, she knew without a doubt that Peter had a history she wanted no part of. It was evident in the broad lines of worry and stress running the length of his face, the downward angle of his lips and the heavy tinge of sadness that sat on his shoulders like a well-worn shroud.
“The stories aren’t all good you know—the scriptures of our gods. They capture an embodiment of holiness, morality and wellbeing, but in truth, the stories are an outline of the death and cruelty to one another. They point out the truth of man and our many flaws.”
Camille remained silent as Peter pushed the iron kettle onto the counter instead of back into the fire for another round of tea and headed to the shelves lining the right side of the kitchen wall. Reaching into the topmost shelf, Peter extracted a stone bottle corked with a waxed and wooden stopper. He grabbed two glasses from the sideboard and poured several inches of a thick caramel colored liquid into each cup.
Taking the glass he handed to her, Camille could smell the smoky notes of whiskey mixed with a woodsy tang of oak.
“Buvona spent her entire existence trying her best to defeat the trickster. Unfortunately,” Peter said with a sad smile, “some monsters can’t be killed, no matter how hard you try.”
“Do you believe the stories, these scriptures of your faith?” Camille asked, taking a small sip from her cup and enjoying the sharp burn as the whiskey traveled down her throat.
“Oh, I do,” Peter said, a resigned sigh escaping from between his lips. “Buvona may never see the end of her own internal torture, but she did give rise to another power, perhaps a stronger one.”
Taking another sip of whiskey, Camille coughed slightly, the hint of burn sizzling the lining of her throat in a somewhat uncomfortable and yet pleasing fashion. “You think the High King is that stronger power fated to rule by the Gods?”
Peter laughed then, a deep belly laugh that brought a fluttering grin to Camille’s lips. “No,” Peter said with a certain finality. “Definitely not.”
“Then what?”
“Hope,” Peter replied easily, as though the single word had been resting on his tongue throughout the entire evening. “The Mother and her three daughters gave us hope.”
Camille snorted in response. “Oh, come on, you can’t be serious.”
“I’m dead serious my dear. Buvona may have cursed her nieces but she left Aspera with two incredible protectors. A giver of unending life and an unstoppable warrior able to kill even the deadliest of all evils. She may not have saved her own life, but she sought the answers to help Aspera in need of protection against the trickster.”
She couldn’t tell if he was being completely serious or pulling her leg, but felt it best to remain silent, uncertain of what Peter was trying to say to her. If the sharp glint in his eye was anything to consider, Camille felt Peter was unloading a dark secret he thought it wasn’t his place to keep any longer.
If she was truly honest with herself, she might admit that as much as Camille wanted answers from Peter about who she was and her past, there was an immense amount of fear surrounding what the truth might be. Perhaps the past and its many stories were best left alone, untouched and disintegrating with time.

Being an independent writer is really hard, I won’t sugar coat this one. It is. Mainly I feel like the hardest part about being an Indie Author is that I have a full time job, plus I am trying to be my own first round editor, marketing specialist, publisher, AND I have to write the books. I know there is freedom in doing this on my own, but there is also the down side of DOING IT ALL ALONE.
The hardest part for me right now is realizing how much time it will take to get the books out to you, my lovely readers. I struggle knowing that you have to wait so long to get the next installment. I see people who have published two books within the last year or so because that is their job! They write, they work on their writing, and then they write MORE. It’s really lovely and I wish beyond all hope that I too can one day take this writing life into a more substantial full time job.
In order to do that I need readers, and to find more readers, I need you. I think right now just finding a base of readers that want to read my book and share to others is the first big step. From there, I want to see about doing more events as an author as the world starts to open up again. I got great advice from a fellow indie author friend of mine saying, “start in your hometown and become famous there, THEN branch out to the whole world.” That made all the sense in the world! There is no reason to jump into the idea’s of doing a world wide book tour when no one in my home town knows about my book or who I am or what I am working on. I live in Los Angeles people, there are a lot of things that I could do to make a name for myself here. I need to find the time, yes, but also I need to do some research. That will be my goal this year. Establish my base in my home town.
I think to start building on this, I want to also share my book with you all. It’s now been out for a year, and I think that at this point sharing the story to all and anyone is worth it for me TO BUILD A BASE! So, I have decided to start releasing Praetorian Rising on my blog one chapter at a time 🙂 I do need to keep you in some levels of suspense. But also, you are always welcome to pick up a copy and support your favorite indie author ❤️
Also, I would love to connect more with you all in the blogging world. Discuss more with you, talk with you, and learn about your writing and reading up’s and down’s. In this life of lock down I find myself looking for areas and ways to connect. Truly, I want to get to know you all and share in our mutual writing, reading, and literary lives.
Cheers to you, and look forward to my posting of my chapters. I plan to release Chapter 1 this weekend!

I am exhausted. Not physically but mentally. This week I knew was going to be difficult, but it’s beyond difficult and has shifted into high gear of being INSANE. I normally can separate between the day to day stress and world stress, this week it’s impossible. I can’t sleep, I’m eating way too much, and I don’t know how to stop this mindset until the elections are done and it feels like things can start going back to normal.
If anyone needs someone to talk to, please reach out. I am needing people too. It’s a strange day my friends but we are in this together!

First question, do you know what NANOWRIMO is?

National Novel Writing Month is when a bunch of writers hunker down and blast through writing a novel in the thirty days of November. October, or fondly known to all writers as Preptober, is where we plan out the novels we are going to write to ensure we know what we are doing. Do we really know what we are doing when it comes time to write the book? No….not really!
Nano is mainly about the interaction and the community as much as it’s about you achieving your goal as a writer. Two years ago I wrote my first draft of #ATOPAP (A Trial of Petals and Poison – Book 2 in the Praetorian Rising Series). This year, I will be working on editing the MONSTER of a book that I currently have. So here is what I plan on doing.
OCTOBER – was all about editing. I wrapped up October getting to Chapter 35 of 47 chapters in draft two of #ATOPAP. The goal is to flesh out the book and wrap up the story in a structured way of telling the story while infusing more tension into the characters story line as well as pulling the reader into Camille Scipio’s main story; identity and a desire to be loved.
NOVEMBER – is all about wrapping up Draft 2 before heading into Draft 3. Now, I told myself I wasn’t going to go TOO heavy on my word count, so this month will be a double task for me. I have 13 chapters left to get to the end of the book, but I ALSO need to keep my word count below 300k. Currently, I am at 298K. This is going to be hard. So I will be editing/slashing words while I am editing/adding words.
Wish me the best of luck ! And if you are going to be doing Nanowrimo2020 please let me know so we can be writing buddies this year! You can find me here on the nano site: Jmcspadden
Meet up with you soon Nanoheads!

Woke up this morning to an awesome review by Kristi’s Bedside Book Review on Twitter and Youtube. What a great way to start my day!
You can check out the reviews for Praetorian Rising here:
WordPress – Praetorian Rising Review
You Tube – Praetorian Rising Review

would do whatever it took to find her again.” Praetorian Rising, J. McSpadden
It’s the most amazing feeling to realize people around the world are reading your book. I’m not sure I’ll ever get over that feeling. Thank you so much Kristi, I am just over the moon today!


Hey There Rogue Rebels, I have some awesome news to share with you!
🍂 TODAY I AM DOING A PRAETORIAN RISING GIVEAWAY🍂
On October 1st I will be doing a Praetorian Rising Giveaway, but I will ALSO be sharing the new title for BOOK 2 of the PR Series! I am very excited to share this with you all. You can take part in this too!
By joining in on the Giveaway this is what you will win:
🍁Free SIGNED copy of Praetorian Rising
🍁Camille Scipio Blood Bond necklace made by @elissajdesigns
🍁Bookish Wax melts from @wickandjanecandles
Don’t miss out on your chance to win these AWESOME gifts. With Autumn settling in, this book and wax melt is just what you need. To enter, here is what you need to do:
🍂Follow my Instagram account
🍂Comment: My favorite part about fall is….
🍂 Tag three people you think might want to part take in this giveaway
🍂 Share on your story for 24 hrs
** This is a US only giveaway friends, but IF you want a free copy of PR I’m giving away copies in the next month that I can amazon ship to you. Reach out in my DM’s if you are interested. I have 10 left, so first come first serve!**
#jointheroguerebellion #praetorianrisingseries #PRS #jmcspaddenwrites
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I hope you are able to take part in this awesome giveaway Rogues!

The more I try these days, the more I feel as though I just can’t connect with people. My posts went from several hundred likes to less than fifty. I know we aren’t supposed to focus on the amount of likes we get in a day, but as someone that uses their platform for promotion and sales of a self published book it can be very disheartening.
Lately I have been trying to formulate how to connect with people more and what it is that most people want to see. I am an author with a book and I want to share that with everyone but not every minute of an author’s life is fun and enjoyable with great things happening. Often my day is filled with work, kids, cleaning, as much writing as I can slip in, and quality time with my family. Pushing in time to take creative photo’s, read the MILLIONS of books on the most current “TBR” and then review and post about them, coordinate your layout to be seasonal or a structured look, take fun photo’s and video’s of yourself appearing as though you are living your best life; HOLY GODS IT’S ALL CONSUMING. I wonder at times if I am just doing it wrong. Does anyone else feel this way?
Perhaps it isn’t about time so much as it’s about dedicated focus. Now, I do find myself heavily focused when I write. Maybe I just need to add more of that focus into my social media platform. Does strong social media ties really translate into books sold? Honestly, from my experience and what I’ve read, it doesn’t. The focus should be pushed toward marketing and managing the marketing of your book. The social media platform is a place to connect yes, sell some of course, but it’s not your money maker so to speak.
So, all of this is to say, what do I want to use my social media platform for? I don’t think just posting pics and updates about my writing process is really something most people really care about. Maybe a post here and there that is like, ‘oh that is interesting. Cool advice!’ But not everyone REALLY uses social media in that way. I feel like the more I dig into this, the more I am realizing that social media isn’t about talking AT someone but talking TO them. Engaging with them and checking in on THEIR life and experiences and relating to them in that way. It’s an organic process to create, form, and bond with people that you don’t know and most likely will never meet.
Here is what I want to do. I want to connect with people. I want to form relationships and bridge the gap between us through our mutual love of stories, characters, books, and writing. I also want to share my journey as I write this book series. Not really because I feel anyone is anxiously awaiting a post from me about this process, but I do hope that one day I will inspire someone to write their story of the heart.

Praetorian Rising was published in July 2019 and before the ink dried on my newly printed copies I was diving into the second book of the series. Book 2 is coming….
My goal with the Praetorian Rising series is to write a quadrilogy with a strong character arch and a finality to the characters stories. Think Harry Potter and Hunger Games; I want to provide a strong story with an ending that fits the characters goals. I hope you enjoy what is to come in this series because I promise you it will be intense.
Book 2 is on the horizon, as is the beginning of marketing the new book, the imagery, the story itself, and the adventure the characters will be embarking on. With PR under my belt for marketing chops I really want to push this second book past what I was able to achieve before. One of my goals will be to catalog my progress, my ups and downs, and what I feel works and doesn’t work. It’s not easy being an Indie Author and harder still to market my own work while I work a full time day job. Hard, but not impossible.
My goal is to hit my stride this November during NANOWRIMO2020 with my final push of second round edits from my editor. It’s a LOT of work let me tell you, but so worth it. I feel I am really able to dive into the process and push myself on my writing abilities to pull out the BEST story I possibly can. My first deadline is February 2021 to get my second round edits back to my editor for the deep dive edit. This one is always the hardest in that it really digs into the details of the story, the why, the how, the when. It’s a focus on the main point of my story as well as the believability of my characters. It’s hard, but it’s so good to do before you push toward a final product. I tend to go through three total rounds of edits prior to publishing, and this one will be my second.
From there I edit, and edit and edit and edit. I read, and reread and then I read again. By July 2021 I want to have a polished manuscript to send back to my editor for a copy edit and a fix on all things grammatical. This is where the fun begins. I will be able to start creating my book cover and working on the visual marketing items. A lot of creativity can be thrown into this, but having a great cover artist on hand is PRICELESS I’m telling you.
The end goal is to publish by October/November 2021. Now that is in a little over a year and I think it’s doable but of course a very challenging deadline. Let’s see how this one goes my Rogue Rebels. #Jointheroguerebellion
In between the editing, writing, and marketing I have some ideas on things I also want to accomplish prior to publishing:
- I want to create a map of Aspera and the Kingdoms surrounding it
- I want to create character portraits of all the main characters in PR
- I want to team up with a couple of candle companies and create some bookish candles to go along with book 1 and book 2 settings and moods.
This is going to be hard work, but also fun. Writing isn’t easy and neither is being an Indie, but when I hold the published book in my hands I can’t even begin to tell you how incredibly wonderful it feels. I hope you join me on this wild adventure and tumble through self publishing!
~ Cheers!
J. McSpadden

I have a confession; when I started writing, I thought about the action and the scenes. What would my protagonist DO, what was her path to the end, what would HAPPEN to her? Not once did the thought of ‘what does she feel’ pop into my head. It’s a little insane when I think back on how I wrote my protagonist in the Praetorian Rising Series. How did I manage to insert the emotions and depth that I did? Well, the first answer is that I spent eight years polishing and perfecting that book. What is impressive to me is that after I published my first book, it was only then that I realized WHAT I’d done without even recognizing that I did it.

If I could choose any actress to play my Protagonist right now it would be Annalise Basso.
There are authors and writers out in the world that just get it. These creative minds write with the flow and ease of a veteran, inserting depth and emotion for the readers to fall in love with the protagonist they are following. They understand the path and decisions their lead character must work through as though it were THEM in the protagonist’s shoes. This structure is what I accomplished in my first book, Praetorian Rising. However, in book 2, I had no idea how to replicate what I had accomplished in book 1 without digging a little more into the details of WHY it worked.
It took a while and a lot of digging through what the ‘professional’ writers all said, but I boiled it down to a single take away.
Before you begin your story, you MUST understand your character’s internal struggle, as well as the point of this tale. Without knowing WHO your protagonist is, your readers won’t be able to establish an emotional connection to a character who walks around experiencing actions. There needs to be depth, emotion, struggle, frustration, acceptance, and overcoming the internal anguish your protagonist experiences. This is the main goal and the main point of any good story. What do you feel when you read it? How does it affect your life? Any good book MUST touch you in some way resonate with you long after you’ve put that book back on your shelf to admire.

Some helpful hints to achieving this ask yourself these questions:
- What is my protagonist afraid of at the start of this story?
- What is my protagonist’s main fear, and what pushes them out of their comfort zone? (Here is where your story takes off. Your protagonist will go from ground zero of their life to the next adventure!)
- Where does my protagonist’s internal fear stem from? (this will be an event that happens before the story even begins! You need to dig deep and build a backstory to the specific moment your lead’s mindset changed.)
Understanding these simple questions, and being able to answer them as your protagonist would think of them is the key to a strong lead character. It’s also the key to getting your readers to care about who will be the champion of your story.
Here is my challenge for today: Write the scene where your protagonist’s fear (internal struggle) stems from. This moment will be an excellent way for you to dive into the mind of your lead and fully understand the moment their mindset shifted to a focus.
Here is an example: Say your story is about a boy who hates intimacy and doesn’t like to be touched. This statement is broad, but it’s an excellent start to a possible book. Your story could be about how your protagonist can overcome his intimacy issues. The fear of intimacy must stem from somewhere. Perhaps as a kid, his older brother would always hug him and put a sticker on his back then would tease him and laugh at him with his friends at school. This harshness caused our protagonist to associate teasing and feeling like a loser to showcase intimacy or affection. He, therefore, decided that he didn’t want to indulge in intimacy with anyone because they would indeed laugh at him.
Now what to do? Write that moment, that single flicker of thought that wormed its way into your protagonist’s mind. When did the fear start, and why? This writing challenge will help establish a base of emotion for your protagonist.

Ready to get some writing done, let’s do this!